s 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
ROBERT  B.  HONEYMAN,  JR. 


• 


BOOKS  BY  BRET  HARTE 

For  complete  list  see 

pages  at  the  back 

of  this  volume 

i 


THE  COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF 

BRET  HARTE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1910 


COPYRIGHT,   1870,  BY  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  A  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,   1871   AND   1874,   BY  JAMES  R.   OSGOOD  &   CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1882,   1896,  AND   IQO2,  BY   HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &   CO. 

COPYRIGHT,   1898  AND   1899,  BY  BRET  HARTE 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


BIOGKAPHICAL   SKETCH 

ALTHOUGH  Bret  Harte's  name  is  identified  with  Cali- 
fornian  life,  it  was  not  till  he  was  fifteen  that  the  author 
of  "  Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James  "  saw  the  coun 
try  of  his  adoption.  Francis  Bret  Harte,  to  give  the  full 
name  which  he  carried  till  he  became  famous,  was  born  at 
Albany,  New  York,  August  25,  1839.  He  went  with  his 
widowed  mother  to  California  in  1854,  and  was  thrown 
as  a  young  man  into  the  hurly-burly  which  he  more 
than  any  other  writer  has  made  real  to  distant  and  later 
people.  He  was  by  turns  a  miner,  school-teacher,  express 
messenger,  printer,  and  journalist.  The  types  which  live 
again  in  his  pages  are  thus  not  only  what  he  observed, 
but  what  he  himself  impersonated  in  his  own  experi 
ence. 

He  began  trying  his  pen  in  The  Golden  Era  of  San 
Francisco,  where,  he  was  working  as  a  compositor ;  and 
when  The  Californian,  edited  by  Charles  Henry  Webb, 
was  started  in  1864  as  a  literary  newspaper,  he  was  one  of 
a  group  of  brilliant  young  fellows  —  Mark  Twain,  Charles 
Warren  Stoddard,  Webb  himself,  and  Prentice  Mulford 
—  who  gave  at  once  a  new  interest  in  California  beside 
what  mining  and  agriculture  caused.  Here  in  an  early 
number  appeared  "  The  Ballad  of  the  Emeu,"  and  he  con 
tributed  many  poems,  grave  and  gay,  as  well  as  prose  in  a 
great  variety  of  form.  At  the  same  time  he  was  appointed 
Secretary  of  the  United  States  Branch  Mint  at  San  Fran 
cisco,  holding  the  office  till  1870. 

But  Bret  Harte's  great   opportunity   came  when  The 


IT  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

Overland  Monthly  was  established  in  1868  by  Anton 
Roman.  This  magazine  was  the  outgrowth  of  the  racy, 
exuberant  literary  spirit  which  had  already  found  free  ex 
pression  in  the  journals  named.  An  eager  ambition  to  lift 
all  the  new  life  of  the  Pacific  into  a  recognized  place  in 
the  world  of  letters  made  the  young  men  we  have  named 
put  their  wits  together  in  a  monthly  magazine  which 
should  rival  the  Atlantic  in  Boston  and  Blackwood  in 
Edinburgh.  The  name  was  easily  had,  and  for  a  sign 
manual  on  the  cover  some  one  drew  a  grizzly  bear,  that 
formidable  exemplar  of  Calif ornian  wildness.  But  the  de 
sign  did  not  quite  satisfy,  until  Bret  Harte,  with  a  felici 
tous  stroke,  drew  two  parallel  lines  just  before  the  feet  of 
the  halting  brute.  Now  it  was  the  grizzly  of  the  wilder 
ness  drawing  back  before  the  railway  of  civilization,  and 
the  picture  was  complete  as  an  emblem. 

Bret  Harte  became,  by  the  common  urgency  of  his  com 
panions,  the  first  editor  of  the  Overland,  and  at  once  his 
own  tales  and  poems  began,  and  in  the  second  number  ap 
peared  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  which  instantly 
brought  him  wide  fame.  In  a  few  months  he  found  him 
self  besought  for  poems  and  articles,  sketches  and  stories, 
in  influential  magazines,  and  in  1871  he  turned  away  from 
the  Pacific  coast,  and  took  up  his  residence,  first  in  New 
York,  afterward  in  Boston. 

"  No  one,"  says  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Stoddard,  "  who 
knows  Mr.  Harte,  and  knew  the  California  of  his  day, 
wonders  that  he  left  it  as  he  did.  Eastern  editors  were 
crying  for  his  work.  Cities  vied  with  one  another  in  the 
offer  of  tempting  bait.  When  he  turned  his  back  on  San 
Francisco,  and  started  for  Boston,  he  began  a  tour  that  the 
greatest  author  of  any  age  might  have  been  proud  of.  It 
was  a  veritable  ovation  that  swelled  from  sea  to  sea :  the 
classic  sheep  was  sacrificed  all  along  the  route.  I  have 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  V 

often  thought  that  if  Bret  Harte  had  met  with  a  fatal 
accident  during  that  transcontinental  journey,  the  world 
would  have  declared  with  one  voice  that  the  greatest  gen 
ius  of  his  time  was  lost  to  it." 

In  Boston  he  entered  into  an  arrangement  with  the  pre 
decessors  of  the  publishers  of  this  volume,  and  his  contri 
butions  appeared  in  their  periodicals  and  were  gathered 
into  volumes.  The  arrangement  in  one  form  or  another 
continued  to  the  time  of  his  death,  and  has  for  witness  a 
stately  array  of  comely  volumes;  but  the  prose  has  far 
outstripped  the  poetry.  There  are  few  writers  of  Mr. 
Harte's  prodigality  of  nature  who  have  used  with  so  much 
fine  reserve  their  faculty  for  melodious  verse,  and  the  pre 
sent  volume  contains  the  entire  body  of  his  poetical  work, 
growing  by  minute  accretions  during  thirty  odd  years. 

In  1878  he  was  appointed  United  States  Consul  at 
Crefeld,  Germany,  and  after  that  date  he  resided,  with 
little  interruption,  on  the  Continent  or  in  England.  He 
was  transferred  to  Glasgow  in  March,  1880,  and  remained 
there  until  July,  1885.  During  the  rest  of  his  life  he 
made  his  home  in  London.  His  foreign  residence  is  dis 
closed  in  a  number  of  prose  sketches  and  tales  and  in  one 
or  two  poems ;  but  life  abroad  never  dimmed  the  vivid 
ness  of  the  impressions  made  on  him  by  the  experience  of 
his  early  manhood  when  he  partook  of  the  elixir  vitce  of 
California,  and  the  stories  which  from  year  to  year  flowed 
from  an  apparently  inexhaustible  fountain  glittered  with 
the  gold  washed  down  from  the  mountain  slopes  of  that 
country  which  through  his  imagination  he  had  made  so 
peculiarly  his  own. 

Mr.  Harte  died  suddenly  at  Camberley,  England,  May 
6,  1902. 


CONTENTS 

I.  NATIONAL. 

JOHN  BURNS  OP  GETTYSBURG    .              •       ,       •       .       .  .1 

"How  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?"        .       .       •       .       .       .  •    •       5 

BATTLE  BUNNY      .       .       •»•»•.       .       •       •  .       7 

THE  REVEILLE  .        .       .       .      •,       .       .        .       ,        .  .         10 

OUR  PRIVILEGE      .        •       •       .       •       .       •        .        .        .  .12 

RELIEVING  GUARD    ..........  13 

THE  GODDESS '.,.-..*••...  .14 

ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING     •       ,    ,   .       .       .  .         16 

A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY      .  .     •       .       .  .17 

THE  COPPERHEAD      .       .       •       ,       .       ,       .       .       .  .         20 

A  SANITARY  MESSAGE         .       .       .       .       •       »       •       .  .21 

THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS ,  .         23 

CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD       .       .       .       .       .  .      25 

THE  AGED  STRANGER  .  .  .  •  ..  .  ,  .  27 
THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW  .  .  •  .  *  .  .29 
CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD  .  .  •  ,  •  •  •  .  •  31 
POEM,  DELIVERED  ON  THE  FOURTEENTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  CAL 
IFORNIA'S  ADMISSION  INTO  THE  UNION  .  «  ,  .  .  33 
Miss  BLANCHE  SAYS.  .  .  .  •  •  •  •  •  •  3f 

AN  ARCTIC  VISION 40 

ST.  THOMAS .  4* 

OFF  SCARBOROUGH       .       .       .       .       «•«!•.  .     45 

CADET  GREY .       .       •       .  ,        49 

II.  SPANISH  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS. 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO  .       .       .       .       .       .  .67 

THE  WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN         ....  70 

THE  ANGELUS        ,.     •«       .       .       .       ,       ,  ,     ,  • .  t       .  .74 

CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO      .       .       •       *       •       f       »  .         76 

*  FOR  THE  KING".       .        .       .       .       ,       .       ,       .       .  .83 

RAMON  ....       *       ....•«,»  90 

DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH.       .       .       *       .       •       •       •  *      93 

AT  THE  HACIENDA >      •      ,      •  .        97 


viii  CONTENTS 

FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE .       •  .98 

IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN 104 

THE  LOST  GALLEON »       .       •  .    106 

III.  IN  DIALECT. 

"JiM" 112 

CHIQUITA        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       ,       .       .       .  .115 

Dow's  FLAT        .       .       .       .       ,       .       .       .       .     ......    .  ng 

IN  THE  TUNNEL ,       ,       .       ,       „  .    122 

"CICELY"    .        .        .        .        .    .    .       . 124 

PENELOPE .       .       ...  .    127 

PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES  .       .       .               .  129 

THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS        .    •   ,       .       .       .  .    132 

LUKE     .        . .        .       ...  134 

"THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS"    . 139 

THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE     .       .       .               .       .       .  142 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES  TO  THE  EDITOR     .       ,       .       ...  .146 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD    .       .       .       ...       .       .       .  149 

THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS         .        .        .       .       .       .       .       .  .    152 

THE  HAWK'S  NEST .       .       .       .  155 

HER  LETTER  .        .        ....       .        .       .       .        .  .157 

His  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER"   .        .    •   .       .       .       .       .  160 

"THE  RETURN  OF  BELISARIUS"        .       .       ....  .163 

FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES     ....  165 

AFTER  THE  ACCIDENT  ....        ..      .....  168 

THE  GHOST  THAT  JIM  SAW      .       .       ...       ....  170 

"SEVENTY-NINE".       .       ...;...       .       .  .    172 

THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY  .       ;       %_    -. .     v  .  .       .       .  175 

A  QUESTION  OF  PRIVILEGE          .        .     "  .       4       .       .        .  .    178 

THE  THOUGHT-READER  OF  ANGELS       .        .       ...      «       .  180 

THE  SPELLING  BEE  AT  ANGELS         *      >       .       .       .       .  .    183 

ARTEMIS  IN  SIERRA  .        .       **>-..       .       ...  188 

JACK  OF  THE  TULES    .       ,       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .192 

IV.  MISCELLANEOUS. 

A  GREYPORT  LEGEND .  195 

A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE 197 

SAN  FRANCISCO 200 

THE  MOUNTAIN  HEART'S-EASE 202 

GRIZZLY                               t       » «       .  204 

MADRONO        .-.-.• 205 

COYOTE         .  206 


CONTENTS  ix 

To  A  SEA-BIRD •       »       .       .  207 

WHAT  THE  CHIMNEY  SANG            »       ,       ,       .       .       .       .  208 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP         .               ....••».  209 

TWENTY  YEARS  ...........  211 

FATE        .        .        .       ;<.       .       .•     .       .       „        .        .        .        .213 

GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN     ........  214 

GUILD'S  SIGNAL, .217 

ASPIRING  Miss  DELAINE 219 

A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE      225 

THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY      .       .       ...       .        .        .        .  234 

ON  A  CONE  OF  THH  BIG  TREES 238 

LONE  MOUNTAIN         .        .        . .  g    .       •  •     «       .        .       .        .  240 

ALNASCHAR 241 

THE  Two  SHIPS 243 

ADDRESS  (OPENING  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  THEATRE,  SAN  FRAN 
CISCO,  JANUARY  19,  1870)         .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .244 

DOLLY  VARDEN  .        .        .        .       .       .....       ,       .  246 

TELEMACHUS  VERSUS  MENTOR   .       .....       .       ,       .  248 

WHAT  THE  WOLF  REALLY  SAID  TO  LITTLE  RED  RIDING-HOOD  252 

HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER    .       .       .       ...       .  253 

WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG .        .  256 

THE  OLD  CAMP-FIRE 257 

THE  STATION-MASTER  OF  LONE  PRAIRIE 261 

THE  MISSION  BELLS  OF  MONTEREY 264 

"  CROTALUS  "       .        .        .   _  .        . 265 

ON  WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT 267 

THE  BIRDS  OF  CIRENCESTEB     .        .        ••',..       .       .        .        .  269 

LINES  TO  A  PORTRAIT,  BY  A  SUPERIOR  PERSON         .       .        .  273 

HER  LAST  LETTER:  BEING  A  REPLY  TO  "His  ANSWER"     .       .  275 

V.  PARODIES. 

BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN 279 

To  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL .        .  280 

THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE 282 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU •      .        .        .  286 

MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS 288 

A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL 291 

AVITOR     .        .        . •  293 

THE  WILLOWS 295 

NORTH  BEACH 298 

THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS 299 

THE  RITUALIST        ..........  300 

A  MORAL  VINDICATOR       .        .       .       .       ,       »»       .        .  301 


X  CONTENTS 

CALIFORNIA  MADRIGAL 303 

WHAT  THE  ENGINES  SAID        .        .        .        .       •       t        •       .304 

THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE •       •       306 

SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE     .  .       .       »       »       *       •       .308 

VI.  LITTLE  POSTERITY. 

MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR  •       •       310 

Miss  EDITH'S  MODEST  REQUEST      .        .        .        •       .«  •        •    313 

Miss  EDITH  MAKES  IT  PLEASANT  FOR  BROTHER  JACK  .        .        316 

Miss  EDITH  MAKES  ANOTHER  FRIEND     .        .       •       *  •        •    318 

WHAT  Miss  EDITH  SAW  FROM  HER  WINDOW    .       .  .       «       320 

ON  THE  LANDING       .       .        ....       •       •  •        .323 

NOTES       .        .        ....     '  j       •        .       •       •       •       327 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES      .       •       • 329 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 38S 


POEMS 

I.   NATIONAL 
JOHN   BUENS   OF   GETTYSBUEG 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?  —  No  ?  Ah,  well : 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns. 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 

The  only  man  who  did  n't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town§ 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July  sixty-three, 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how  but  the  day  before 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 
Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 


NATIONAL 

The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail  red  as  blood  ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine.  — • 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 

Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 

That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 

He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 

While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — 

Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 
Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 


JOHN   BURNS   OF   GETTYSBURG 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 
Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 
Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away  ; 
And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 
Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in,  — 
Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 
Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore, 
And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore. 
With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 
"  How  are  you,  White  Hat  ?  "  "  Put  her  through ! K 
"  Your  head  >s  level !  "  and  "  Bully  for  you !  " 
Called  him  "  Daddy/7  —  begged  he  'd  disclose 
The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those ; 
While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 
With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked; 


NATIONAL 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  hell-crown ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  hattle  there ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question  7s  whether 
You  '11  show  a  hat  that  7s  white,  or  a  feather ! 


"HOW  AKE   YOU,    SANITARY?" 

DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane 

Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 

Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 
Soldier-like  and  merry : 

Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 

Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 

Such  as  "  Bully  !  "  "  Them  >s  the  peach  !  » 
"  Wade  in,  Sanitary !  " 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military  ; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these,  — 
U.  S.  San.  Com."  "  That >s  the  cheese ! " 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  ! " 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won  : 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo  !   was  stationary  ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die,  — 

Save  us,  Sanitary  !  " 

Such  the  work.     The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise ; 


NATIONAL 

But  the  brave  —  whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside  — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride : 

"Pass  in,  Sanitary!" 


BATTLE   BUNNY 
(MALVERN  HILL,  1864) 

"  After  the  men  were  ordered  to  lie  down,  a  white  rabbit,  which  had 
been  hopping  hither  and  thither  over  the  field  swept  by  grape  and  mus 
ketry,  took  refuge  among  the  skirmishers,  in  the  breast  of  a  corporal."  — 
Report  of  the  Battle  of  Malvern  Hill. 

BUNNY,  lying  in  the  grass, 
Saw  the  shining  column  pass ; 
Saw  the  starry  banner  fly, 
Saw  the  chargers  fret  and  fume, 
Saw  the  flapping  hat  and  plume,  — 
Saw  them  with  his  moist  and  shy 
Most  unspeculative  eye, 
Thinking  only,  in  the  dew, 
That  it  was  a  fine  review. 

Till  a  flash,  not  all  of  steel, 
Where  the  rolling  caissons  wheel, 
Brought  a  rumble  and  a  roar 
Kolling  down  that  velvet  floor, 
And  like  blows  of  autumn  flail 
Sharply  threshed  the  iron  hail. 

Bunny,  thrilled  by  unknown  fears, 
Raised  his  soft  and  pointed  ears, 
Mumbled  his  prehensile  lip, 
Quivered  his  pulsating  hip, 
As  the  sharp  vindictive  yell 
Rose  above  the  screaming  shell ; 


NATIONAL 

Thought  the  world  and  all  its  men,  — 
All  the  charging  squadrons  meant,  — 
All  were  rabbit-hunters  then, 
All  to  capture  him  intent. 
Bunny  was  not  much  to  blame : 
Wiser  folk  have  thought  the  same,  — 
Wiser  folk  who  think  they  spy 
Every  ill  begins  with  "  I." 

Wildly  panting  here  and  there, 
Bunny  sought  the  freer  air, 
Till  he  hopped  below  the  hill, 
And  saw,  lying  close  and  still, 
Men  with  muskets  in  their  hands. 
(Never  Bunny  understands 
That  hypocrisy  of  sleep, 
In  the  vigils  grim  they  keep, 
As  recumbent  on  that  spot 
They  elude  the  level  shot.) 

One  —  a  grave  and  quiet  man, 

Thinking  of  his  wife  and  child 

Far  beyond  the  Eapidan, 

Where  the  Androscoggin  smiled  — 

Felt  the  little  rabbit  creep, 

Nestling  by  his  arm  and  side, 

Wakened  from  strategic  sleep, 

To  that  soft  appeal  replied, 

Drew  him  to  his  blackened  breast, 

And  —     But  you  have  guessed  the  rest. 

Softly  o'er  that  chosen  pair 
Omnipresent  Love  and  Care 
Drew  a  mightier  Hand  and  Arm, 
Shielding  them  from  every  harm; 


BATTLE   BUNNY 

Bight  and  left  the  bullets  waved, 
Saved  the  saviour  for  the  saved. 


Who  believes  that  equal  grace 
God  extends  in  every  place, 
Little  difference  he  scans 
'Twixt  a  rabbit's  God  and  man's,. 


THE   KEVEILLE 

HARK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum ; 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Bound  the  quick  alarming  drum,  — 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come  I 
Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick  alarming  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel  : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 

Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said   the    solemn- 
sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee  answer, 
ing  drum. 

u  What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 
Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 


THE   REVEILLE  11 

When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant.  — 
Come  !  " 

Thus  they  answered,  —  hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  !  " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb, 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  natioij,  throbbing,  answered, 
"  Lord,  we  come  ! " 


CUE  PEIVILEGE 

NOT  ours,  where  battle  smoke  upcurls, 

And  battle  dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason  hurls 

By  sword  and  bayonet. 

Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 
The  fleshless  Reaper  wields  ; 

The  harvest  moon  looks  calmly  down 
Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 

The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 
And  Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 

Is  pouring  far  and  free. 

O  brothers  by  the  farther  sea  ! 

Think  still  our  faith  is  warm ; 
The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 

That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 
Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride,  — 

The  blood  that  flowed  when  Lander  fell, 
And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 

With  every  pulse  ye  feel, 
And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 

With  Valor's  clashing  steel. 


BELIEVING   GUABD 

THOMAS    STARR    KING.        OBIIT    MARCH    4,  1864 

CAME  the  relief.     "  What,  sentry,  ho  ! 
How  passed  the  night  through  thy  long  waking  ? 
"  Cold,  cheerless,  dark,  —  as  may  hefit 
The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"  No  sight  ?  no  sound  ?  "     "  No  ;  nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marshes  calling, 
And  in  yon  western  sky,  about 
An  hour  ago,  a  star  was  falling." 

"  A  star  ?     There  's  nothing  strange  in  that." 
"  No,  nothing ;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket." 


THE   GODDESS 

CONTRIBUTED    TO    THE    FAIR  FOR  THE  LADIES*  PATRIOTIC 
FUND    OF    THE    PACIFIC 

"  WHO  comes  ?  "     The  sentry's  warning  cry 

Rings  sharply  on  the  evening  air : 
Who  comes  ?     The  challenge  :  no  reply, 
Yet  something  motions  there. 

A  woman,  by  those  graceful  folds ; 
A  soldier,  by  that  martial  tread : 
"  Advance  three  paces.     Halt !  until 
Thy  name  and  rank  be  said." 

"  My  name  ?     Her  name,  in  ancient  song, 

Who  fearless  from  Olympus  came : 
Look  on  me  !     Mortals  know  me  best 
In  battle  and  in  flame." 

"  Enough  !     I  know  that  clarion  voice  ; 
I  know  that  gleaming  eye  and  helm, 
Those  crimson  lips,  —  and  in  their  dew 
The  best  blood  of  the  realm. 

"  The  young,  the  brave,  the  good  and  wise, 

Have  fallen  in  thy  curst  embrace  : 
The  juices  of  the  grapes  of  wrath 
Still  stain  thy  guilty  face. 


THE   GODDESS  15 

"  My  brother  lies  in  yonder  field, 

Face  downward  to  the  quiet  grass : 
Go  back  !   he  cannot  see  thee  now  ; 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  pass." 

A  crack  upon  the  evening  air, 

A  wakened  echo  from  the  hill : 
The  watchdog  on  the  distant  shore 

Gives  mouth,  and  all  is  still. 

The  sentry  with  his  brother  lies 

Face  downward  on  the  quiet  grass ; 
And  by  him,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 

A  shadow  seems  to  pass. 

No  lance  or  warlike  shield  it  bears: 

A  helmet  in  its  pitying  hands 
Brings  water  from  the  nearest  brook, 

To  meet  his  last  demands. 

Can  this  be  she  of  haughty  mien, 

The  goddess  of  the  sword  and  shield  ? 

Ah,  yes  !     The  Grecian  poet's  myth 
Sways  still  each  battlefield. 

For  not  alone  that  rugged  War 

Some  grace  or  charm  from  Beauty  gains; 

But,  when  the  goddess'  work  is  done, 
The  woman's  still  remains. 


ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS   STAKE   KING 

THIS  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath  still  hidden  ; 

The  prompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies  unbidden. 

But  who  shall  finish  the  unfinished  strain, 
Or  wake  the  instrument  to  awe  and  wonder, 

And  bid  the  slender  barrel  breathe  again, 
An  organ-pipe  of  thunder  ! 

His  pen  !  what  humbler  memories  cling  about 

Its  golden  curves !  what  shapes  and  laughing  graces 

Slipped  from  its  point,  when  his  full  heart  went  out 
In  smiles  and  courtly  phrases  ? 

The  truth,  half  jesting,  half  in  earnest  flung  ; 

The  word  of  cheer,  with  recognition  in  it ; 
The  note  of  alms,  whose  golden  speech  outrung 

The  golden  gift  within  it. 

But  all  in  vain  the  enchanter's  wand  we  wave : 
No  stroke  of  ours  recalls  his  magic  vision : 

The  incantation  th&t  its  power  gave 
Sleeps  with  ttie  dead  magician. 


A.  SECOND  EEVIEW   OF   THE   GKAND  AEMY 

I  READ  last  night  of  the  grand  review 
In  Washington's  chief est  avenue,  — 
Two  hundred  thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number,  — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber,  — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  reverie,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo !   in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico,  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare  j 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square  ; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread ; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 


18  NATIONAL 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning : 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires : 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation  : 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead,  —  the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever  swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison  pen ; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright ; 
I  thought  —  perhaps  't  was  the  pale  moonlight  - 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 


A  SECOND   REVIEW   OF  THE   GRAND  ARMY  19 

Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished ; 
No  mark  —  save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer  ; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky  ; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves  —  for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array, 
So  all  night  long  till  the  morning  gray 
I  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder,  — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come  ;  and  I  spake  — and  lo !  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


THE   COPPEEHEAD 

(1864) 

THERE  is  peace  in  the  swamp  where  the  Copperhead  sleeps, 
Where  the  waters  are  stagnant,  the  white  vapor  creeps, 
Where  the  musk  of  Magnolia  hangs  thick  in  the  air, 
And  the  lilies'  phylacteries  broaden  in  prayer. 
There  is  peace  in  the  swamp,  though  the  quiet  is  death, 
Though  the  mist  is  miasma,  the  upas-tree's  breath, 
Though  no  echo  awakes  to  the  cooing  of  doves,  — 
There  is  peace  :  yes,  the  peace  that  the  Copperhead  loves. 

Go  seek  him :  he  coils  in  the  ooze  and  the  drip, 
Like  a  thong  idly  flung  from  the  slave-driver's  whip ; 
But  beware  the  false  footstep,  —  the  stumble  that  brings 
A  deadlier  lash  than  the  overseer  swings. 
Never  arrow  so  true,  never  bullet  so  dread, 
As  the  straight  steady  stroke  of  that  hammer-shaped  head ; 
Whether  slave  or  proud  planter,  who  braves  that  dull  crest, 
Woe  to  him  who  shall  trouble  the  Copperhead's  rest ! 

Then  why  waste  your  labors,  brave  hearts  and  strong  men, 
In  tracking  a  trail  to  the  Copperhead's  den  ? 
Lay  your  axe  to  the  cypress,  hew  open  the  shade 
To  the  free  sky  and  sunshine  Jehovah  has  made  ; 
Let  the  breeze  of  the  North  sweep  the  vapors  away, 
Till  the  stagnant  lake  ripples,  the  freed  waters  play ; 
And  then  to  your  heel  can  you  righteously  doom 
The  Copperhead  born  of  its  shadow  and  gloom ! 


A   SANITARY  MESSAGE 

LAST  night,  above  the  whistling  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain,  — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  keyhole  piped  ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew  ; 
Yet,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

A  softer  voice  stole  through. 

"  Give  thanks,  0  brothers !  "  said  the  voice, 

"  That  He  who  sent  the  rains 
Hath  spared  your  fields  the  scarlet  dew 

That  drips  from  patriot  veins : 
I  Jve  seen  the  grass  on  Eastern  graves 

In  brighter  verdure  rise ; 
But,  oh !   the  rain  that  gave  it  life 

Sprang  first  from  human  eyes. 

"  I  come  to  wash  away  no  stain 

Upon  your  wasted  lea ; 
I  raise  no  banners,  save  the  ones 

The  forest  waves  to  me  : 
Upon  the  mountain  side,  where  Spring 

Her  farthest  picket  sets, 
My  reveille  awakes  a  host 

Of  grassy  bayonets. 

"  I  visit  every  humble  roof ; 
I  mingle  with  the  low  ? 


22  NATIONAL 

Only  upon  the  highest  peaks 
My  blessings  fall  in  snow ; 

Until,  in  tricklings  of  the  stream 
And  drainings  of  the  lea, 

My  unspent  bounty  comes  at  last 
To  mingle  with  the  sea." 

And  thus  all  night,  above  the  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain,  — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  keyhole  piped ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew  ; 
But,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife? 

This  hymn  of  peace  stole  through. 


THE   OLD  MAJOR   EXPLAINS 
(RE-UNION,  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  12TH  MAY,  1871) 

WELL,  you  see,  the  fact  is,  Colonel,  I  don't  know  as  1 

can  come: 
For  the  farm  is  not  half  planted,  and  there  's  work  to  do  at 

home ; 
And  my  leg  is  getting  troublesome,  —  it  laid  me  up  last 

fall,  — 
And  the  doctors,  they  have  cut  and  hacked,  and  never 

found  the  ball. 

And  then,  for  an  old  man  like  me,  it 's  not  exactly  right, 
This  kind  o'  playing  soldier  with  no  enemy  in  sight. 
"  The  Union,"  —  that  was  well  enough  way  up  to  '66  ; 
But  this  "  Re-Union,"  maybe  now  it  's  mixed  with  politics  ? 

No  ?     Well,  you  understand  it  best ;  but  then,  you  see, 

my  lad, 
1 7m  deacon  now,  and  some  might  think  that  the  example  's 

bad. 
And  week  from  next  is   Conference.  .  .  .  You  said  the 

twelfth  of  May  ? 
Why,  that 's  the  day  we  broke  their  line  at  Spottsylvan-i-a ! 

Hot  work ;  eh,  Colonel,  was  n't  it  ?     Ye  mind  that  narrow 

front : 
They  called  it  the  "  Death- Angle  "  !     Well,  well,  my  lad, 

we  won't 

Fight  that  old  battle  over  now :   I  only  meant  to  say 
I  really  can't  engage  to  come  upon  the  twelfth  of  May. 


24  NATIONAL 

How's  Thompson?  What!  will  he  be  there?  Well, 
now  I  want  to  know  ! 

The  first  man  in  the  rebel  works  !  they  called  him  "  Swear 
ing  Joe." 

A  wild  young  fellow,  sir,  I  fear  the  rascal  was  ;  but  then  — 

Well,  short  of  heaven,  there  wa'n't  a  place  he  dursn't  lead 
his  men. 

And  Dick,  you  say,  is  coming  too.     And  Billy  ?  ah  !  it  'a 

true 

We  buried  him  at  Gettysburg  :  I  mind  the  spot ;  do  you  ? 
A  little  field  below  the  hill,  —  it  must  be  green  this  May ; 
Perhaps  that 's  why  the  fields  about  bring  him  to  me  to-day. 

Well,  well,  excuse  me,  Colonel !  but  there  are  some  things 

that  drop 
The  tail-board  out  one's  feelings ;  and  the  only  way  ?s  to 

stop. 
So  they  want  to  see  the  old  man  ;  ah,  the  rascals !  do  they, 

eh? 
Well,  I  've  business  down  in  Boston  about  the  twelfth  of 

May. 


CALIFOBNIA'S   GKEETING  TO   SEWAKD 

(1869) 

WE  know  him  well :  no  need  of  praise 

Or  bonfire  from  the  windy  hill 
To  light  to  softer  paths  and  ways 

The  world- worn  man  we  honor  still. 

No  need  to  quote  the  truths  he  spoke 

That  burned  through  years  of  war  and  shame, 

While  History  carves  with  surer  stroke 
Across  our  map  his  noonday  fame. 

No  need  to  bid  him  show  the  scars 
Of  blows  dealt  by  the  Scsean  gate, 

Who  lived  to  pass  its  shattered  bars, 
And  see  the  foe  capitulate : 

Who  lived  to  turn  his  slower  feet 

Toward  the  western  setting  sun, 
To  see  his  harvest  all  complete, 

His  dream  fulfilled,  his  duty  done, 

The  one  flag  streaming  from  the  pole, 
The  one  faith  borne  from  sea  to  sea : 

For  such  a  triumph,  and  such  goal, 
Poor  must  our  human  greeting  be. 

Ah  !  rather  that  the  conscious  land 
In  simpler  ways  salute  the  Man,  — 


26  NATIONAL 

The  tall  pines  bowing  where  they  stand, 
The  bared  head  of  El  Capitan ! 

The  tumult  of  the  waterfalls, 
Pohono's  kerchief  in  the  breeze, 

The  waving  from  the  rocky  walls, 
The  stir  and  rustle  of  the  trees ; 

Till,  lapped  in  sunset  skies  of  hope, 
In  sunset  lands  by  sunset  seas, 

The  Young  World's  Premier  treads  the  slope 
Of  sunset  years  in  calm  and  peace. 


THE  AGED   STRANGER 

AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR 

*  I  WAS  with  Grant "  —  the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 
For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant "  —  the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Nay,  no  more,  — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 
And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy,  —  my  soldier  boy, 

Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps  ? 
I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar  ! " 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"  And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant  "  —     "  Nay,  nay,  I  know/* 
Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  more  : 

"He  fell  in  battle,  —  I  see,  alas ! 

Thou  'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er,  — 
Nay,  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 
Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"  How  fell  he  ?     With  his  face  to  the  foe, 
Upholding  the  flag  he  bore  ? 


28  V,  NATIONAL 

Oh,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 
The  uniform  that  he  wore  !  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"And  should  have  remarked  before, 
That  I  was  with  Grant,  —  in  Illinois,  — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man  who  had  worked  for  Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW 

(WAR    OF    THE    REBELLION,    1864) 

No,  I  won't,  —  thar,  now,  so  !    And  it  ain't  nothing  —  no ! 
And  thar  's  nary  to  tell  that  you  folks  yer  don't  know ; 
And  it 's  "  Belle,  tell  us,  do  !  "  and  it 's  "  Belle,  is  it  true  ?  " 
And  "  Wot 's  this  yer  yarn  of  the  Major  and  you  ?  " 
Till  I  'm  sick  of  it  all,  —  so  I  am,  but  I  s'pose 
Thet  is  nothin'  to  you.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  listen  !  yer  goes ! 

It  was  after  the  fight,  and  around  us  all  night 
Thar  was  poppin'  and  shootin'  a  powerful  sight ; 
And  the  niggers  had  fled,  and  Aunt  Ohio  was  abed, 
And  Pinky  and  Milly  were  hid  in  the  shed  : 
And  I  ran  out  at  daybreak,  and  nothin'  was  nigh 
But  the  growlin'  of  cannon  low  down  in  the  sky. 

And  I  saw  not  a  thing,  as  I  ran  to  the  spring, 
But  a  splintered  fence  rail  and  a  broken-down  swing, 
And  a  bird  said  "  Kerchee !  "  as  it  sat  on  a  tree, 
As  if  it  was  lonesome,  and  glad  to  see  me  ; 
And  I  filled  up  my  pail  and  was  risin'  to  go, 
When  up  comes  the  Major  a-canterin'  slow. 

When  he  saw  me  he  drew  in  his  reins,  and  then  threw 
On  the  gate-post  his  bridle,  and  —  what  does  he  do 
But  come  down  where  I  sat ;  and  he  lifted  his  hat, 
And  he  says  —  well,  thar  ain't  any  need  to  tell  that ; 
'T  was  some  foolishness,  sure,  but  it  'mounted  to  this, 
Thet  he  asked  for  a  drink,  and  he  wanted  —  a  kiss. 


30  NATIONAL 

Then  I  said  (I  was  mad),  "  For  the  water,  my  lad, 

You  're  too  big  and  must  stoop  ;  for  a  kiss,  it  's  as  bad,  — 

You  ain't  near  big  enough."     And  I  turned  in  a  huff, 

When  that  Major  he  laid  his  white  hand  on  my  cuff, 

And  he  says,  "  You  're  a  trump  !     Take  my  pistol,  don't 

fear ! 
But  shoot  the  next  man  that  insults  you,  my  dear." 

Then  he  stooped  to  the  pool,  very  quiet  and  cool, 
Leavin'  me  with  that  pistol  stuck  there  like  a  fool, 
When  thar  flashed  on  my  sight  a  quick  glimmer  of  light 
From  the  top  of  the  little  stone  fence  on  the  right, 
And  I  knew  't  was  a  rifle,  and  back  of  it  all 
Rose  the  face  of  that  bushwhacker,  Cherokee  Hall ! 

Then  I  felt  in  my  dread  that  the  moment  the  head 
Of  the  Major  was  lifted,  the  Major  was  dead ; 
And  I  stood  still  and  white,  but  Lord  !  gals,  in  spite 
Of  my  care,  that  derned  pistol  went  off  in  my  fright ! 
Went  off  —  true  as  gospil !  —  and,  strangest  of  all, 
It  actooally  injured  that  Cherokee  Hall ! 

Thet  's  all  —  now,  go  'long  !     Yes,  some  folks  thinks  it  'a 

wrong, 

And  thar  's  some  wants  to  know  to  what  side  I  belong ; 
But  I  says,  "  Served  him  right !  "  and  I  go,  all  my  might, 
In  love  or  in  war,  for  a  fair  stand-up  fight ; 
And  as  for  the  Major —  sho  !  gals,  don't  you  know 
—  Lord  !  thar  's  his  step  in  the  garden  below. 


CALDWELL   OF   SPKINGFIELD 
(NEW  JERSEY,  1780) 

HERE'S    the    spot.     Look    around    you.     Above    on   the 

height 

Lay  the  Hessians  encamped.     By  that  church  on  the  right 
Stood  the  gaunt  Jersey  farmers.     And  here  ran  a  wall,  — 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you  '11  turn  up  a  ball. 
Nothing  more.      Grasses  spring,  waters  run,  flowers  blow, 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 

Nothing    more,   did  I  say  ?     Stay  one  moment  •-    you  've 

heard 

Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached  the  word 
Down  at  Springfield  ?     What,  no  ?     Come  —  that 's  bad ; 

why,  he  had 

All  the  Jerseys  aflame !     And  they  gave  him  the  name 
Of  the  "  rebel  high  priest."     He  stuck  in  their  gorge, 
For  he  loved  the  Lord  God  —  and  he  hated  King  George ! 

He  had  cause,  you  might  say !     When  the  Hessians  that 

day 

Marched  up  with  Knyphausen,  they  stopped  on  their  way 
At  the  "  farms/'  where  his  wife,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
Sat  alone  in  the  house.     How  it  happened  none  knew 
But  God  —  and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot !     Enough  ! — there  she  lay, 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband,  away ! 


32  NATIONAL 

Did  he  preach  —  did  he  pray  ?     Think  of  him  as  you  stand 
By  the  old  church  to-day,  —  think  of  him  and  his  band 
Of  militant  ploughboys  !      See  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
Of  that  reckless  advance,  of  that  straggling  retreat ! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in  your  view  — 
And  what  could  you,  what  should  you,  what  would  you  do  ? 

Why,  just  what  he  did !     They  were  left  in  the  lurch 
For  the  want  of  more  wadding.     He  ran  to  the  church, 
]Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed  out  in  the 

road 

With  his  arms  full  of  hymn-books,  and  threw  down  his  load 
At  their  feet !     Then  above  all  the  shouting  and  shots 
Rang  his  voice :   "  Put  Watts  into  'em !     Boys,  give  'em 

Watts ! » 

And  they  did.     That  is  all.     Grasses  spring,  flowers  blow, 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you  '11  turn  up  a  ball  — 
Bnfc  aot  always  a  hero  like  this  —  and  that  'a  all. 


POEM 

DELIVERED  ON  THE  FOURTEENTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  CALI 
FORNIA'S    ADMISSION   INTO   THE   UNION,    SEPTEMBER   9, 

1864 

WE  meet  in  peace,  though  from  our  native  East 
The  sun  that  sparkles  on  our  birthday  feast 
Glanced  as  he  rose  on  fields  whose  dews  were  red 
With  darker  tints  than  those  Aurora  spread. 
Though  shorn  his  rays,  his  welcome  disk  concealed 
In  the  dim  smoke  that  veiled  each  battlefield, 
Still  striving  upward,  in  meridian  pride, 
He  climbed  the  walls  that  East  and  West  divide,  — 
Saw  his  bright  face  flashed  back  from  golden  sand, 
And  sapphire  seas  that  lave  the  Western  land. 

Strange  was  the  contrast  that  such  scenes  disclose 
From  his  high  vantage  o'er  eternal  snows  ; 
There  War's  alarm  the  brazen  trumpet  rings  — 
Here  his  love-song  the  mailed  cicala  sings  ; 
There  bayonets  glitter  through  the  forest  glades  — 
Here  yellow  cornfields  stack  their  peaceful  blades ; 
There  the  deep  trench  where  Valor  finds  a  grave  — 
Here  the  long  ditch  that  curbs  the  peaceful  wave  ; 
There  the  bold  sapper  with  his  lighted  train  — 
Here  the  dark  tunnel  and  its  stores  of  gain ; 
Here  the  full  harvest  and  the  wain's  advance  — 
There  the  Grim  Reaper  and  the  ambulance. 

With  scenes  so  adverse,  what  mysterious  bond 
Links  our  fair  fortunes  to  the  shores  beyond  ? 


34  NATIONAL 

Why  come  we  here  —  last  of  a  scattered  fold  — 
To  pour  new  metal  in  the  broken  mould  ? 
To  yield  our  tribute,  stamped  with  Caesar's  face, 
To  Caesar,  stricken  in  the  market-place  ? 

Ah  !  love  of  country  is  the  secret  tie 

That  joins  these  contrasts  'neath  one  arching  sky  ; 

Though  brighter  paths  our  peaceful  steps  explore, 

We  meet  together  at  the  Nation's  door. 

War  winds  her  horn,  and  giant  cliffs  go  down 

Like  the  high  walls  that  girt  the  sacred  town, 

And  bares  the  pathway  to  her  throbbing  heart, 

From  clustered  village  and  from  crowded  mart. 

Part  of  God's  providence  it  was  to  found 
A  Nation's  bulwark  on  this  chosen  ground ; 
Ifot  Jesuit's  zeal  nor  pioneer's  unrest 
Planted  these  pickets  in  the  distant  West, 
But  He  who  first  the  Nation's  fate  forecast 
Placed  here  His  fountains  sealed  for  ages  past, 
Rock-ribbed  and  guarded  till  the  coming  time 
Should  fit  the  people  for  their  work  sublime  ; 
When  a  new  Moses  with  his  rod  of  steel 
Smote  the  tall  cliffs  with  one  wide-ringing  peal, 
And  the  old  miracle  in  record  told 
To  the  new  Nation  was  revealed  in  gold. 

Judge  not  too  idly  that  our  toils  are  mean, 
Though  no  new  levies  marshal  on  our  green ; 
Nor  deem  too  rashly  that  our  gains  are  small, 
Weighed  with  the  prizes  for  which  heroes  fall. 
See,  where  thick  vapor  wreathes  the  battle-line ; 
There  Mercy  follows  with  her  oil  and  wine  ; 
Or  where  brown  Labor  with  its  peaceful  charm 
Stiffens  the  sinews  of  the  Nation's  arm. 


ANNIVERSARY   POEM  35 

What  nerves  its  hands  to  strike  a  deadlier  blow 
And  hurl  its  legions  on  the  rebel  foe  ? 
Lo  !  for  each  town  new  rising  o'er  our  State 
See  the  foe's  hamlet  waste  and  desolate, 
While  each  new  factory  lifts  its  chimney  tall, 
Like  a  fresh  mortar  trained  on  Richmond's  wall. 

For  this,  O  brothers,  swings  the  fruitful  vine, 
Spread  our  broad  pastures  with  their  countless  kine : 
For  this  o'erhead  the  arching  vault  springs  clear, 
Sunlit  and  cloudless  for  one  half  the  year ; 
For  this  no  snowflake,  e'er  so  lightly  pressed, 
Chills  the  warm  impulse  of  our  mother's  breast. 
Quick  to  reply,  from  meadows  brown  and  sere, 
She  thrills  responsive  to  Spring's  earliest  tear ; 
Breaks  into  blossom,  flings  her  loveliest  rose 
Ere  the  white  crocus  mounts  Atlantic  snows ; 
And  the  example  of  her  liberal  creed 
Teaches  the  lesson  that  to-day  we  heed. 

Thus  ours  the  lot  with  peaceful,  generous  hand 
To  spread  our  bounty  o'er  the  suffering  land ; 
As  the  deep  cleft  in  Mariposa's  wall 
Hurls  a  vast  river  splintering  in  its  fall,  — 
Though  the  rapt  soul  who  stands  in  awe  below 
Sees  but  the  arching  of  the  promised  bow,  — 
Lo !  the  far  streamlet  drinks  its  dews  unseen, 
And  the  whole  valley  wakes  a  brighter  green. 


MISS   BLANCHE   SAYS 

AND  you  are  the  poet,  and  so  you  want 

Something  —  what  is  it  ?  —  a  theme,  a  fancy  ? 
Something  or  other  the  Muse  won't  grant 

To  your  old  poetical  necromancy  ; 
Why,  one  half  you  poets  —  you  can't  deny  — 

Don't  know  the  Muse  when  you  chance  to  meet  her, 
But  sit  in  your  attics  and  mope  and  sigh 
For  a  faineant  goddess  to  drop  from  the  sky, 
When  flesh  and  hlood  may  be  standing  by 

Quite  at  your  service,  should  you  but  greet  her. 

What  if  I  told  you  my  own  romance  ? 

Women  are  poets,  if  you  so  take  them, 
One  third  poet,  —  the  rest  what  chance 

Of  man  and  marriage  may  choose  to  make  them. 
Give  me  ten  minutes  before  you  go,  — 

Here  at  the  window  we  '11  sit  together, 
Watching  the  currents  that  ebb  and  flow ; 
Watching  the  world  as  it  drifts  below 
Up  the  hot  Avenue's  dusty  glow : 

Is  n't  it  pleasant,  this  bright  June  weather  ? 

Well,  it  was  after  the  war  broke  out, 

And  I  was  a  schoolgirl  fresh  from  Paris ; 

Papa  had  contracts,  and  roamed  about, 

And  I  —  did  nothing  —  for  I  was  an  heiress. 

Picked  some  lint,  now  I  think ;  perhaps 
Knitted  some  stockings  —  a  dozen  nearly ; 


MISS  BLANCHE   SAYS  37 

Havelocks  made  for  the  soldiers'  caps ; 
Stood  at  fair-tables  and  peddled  traps 
Quite  at  a  profit.     The  "  shoulder-straps  " 

Thought  I  was  pretty.     Ah,  thank  you  !  really  ? 

Still  it  was  stupid.     E-ata-tat-tat ! 

Those  were  the  sounds  of  that  battle  summer, 
Till  the  earth  seemed  a  parchment  round  and  flat, 

And  every  footfall  the  tap  of  a  drummer ; 
And  day  by  day  down  the  Avenue  went 

Cavalry,  infantry,  all  together, 
Till  my  pitying  angel  one  day  sent 
My  fate  in  the  shape  of  a  regiment, 
That  halted,  just  as  the  day  was  spent, 

Here  at  our  door  in  the  bright  June  weather. 

None  of  your  dandy  warriors  they,  — 

Men  from  the  West,  but  where  I  know  not ; 
Haggard  and  travel-stained,  worn  and  gray, 

With  never  a  ribbon  or  lace  or  bow-knot: 
And  I  opened  the  window,  and,  leaning  there, 

I  felt  in  their  presence  the  free  winds  blowing. 
My  neck  and  shoulders  and  arms  were  bare,  — 
I  did  not  dream  they  might  think  me  fair, 
But  I  had  some  flowers  that  night  in  my  hair, 

And  here,  on  my  bosom,  a  red  rose  glowing. 

And  I  looked  from  the  window  along  the  line, 

Dusty  and  dirty  and  grim  and  solemn, 
Till  an  eye  like  a  bayonet  flash  met  mine, 

And  a  dark  face  shone  from  the  darkening  column, 
And  a  quick  flame  leaped  to  my  eyes  and  hair, 

Till  cheeks  and  shoulders  burned  all  together, 
And  the  next  I  found  myself  standing  there 
With  my  eyelids  wet  and  my  cheeks  less  fair, 


38  NATIONAL 

And  the  rose  from  my  bosom  tossed  high  in  air, 
Like  a  blood-drop  falling  on  plume  and  feather. 

Then  I  drew  back  quickly  :   there  came  a  cheer, 

A  rush  of  figures,  a  noise  and  tussle, 
And  then  it  was  over,  and  high  and  clear 

My  red  rose  bloomed  on  his  gun's  black  muzzle. 
Then  far  in  the  darkness  a  sharp  voice  cried, 

And  slowly  and  steadily,  all  together, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  and  side  to  side, 
Rising  and  falling  and  swaying  wide, 
But  bearing  above  them  the  rose,  my  pride, 

They  marched  away  in  the  twilight  weather. 

And  I  leaned  from  my  window  and  watched  my  rose 

Tossed  on  the  waves  of  the  surging  column, 
Warmed  from  above  in  the  sunset  glows, 

Borne  from  below  by  an  impulse  solemn. 
Then  I  shut  the  window.     I  heard  no  more 

Of  my  soldier  friend,  nor  my  flower  neither, 
But  lived  my  life  as  I  did  before. 
I  did  not  go  as  a  nurse  to  the  war,  — 
Sick  folks  to  me  are  a  dreadful  bore,  — 

So  I  did  n't  go  to  the  hospital  either. 

You  smile,  O  poet,  and  what  do  you  ? 

You  lean  from  your  window,  and  watch  life's  column 
Trampling  and  struggling  through  dust  and  dew, 

Filled  with  its  purposes  grave  and  solemn  ; 
And  an  act,  a  gesture,  a  face  —  who  knows  ?  — 

Touches  your  fancy  to  thrill  and  haunt  you, 
And  you  pluck  from  your  bosom  the  verse  that  grows 
And  down  it  flies  like  my  red,  red  rose, 
And  you  sit  and  dream  as  away  it  goes, 

And  think  that  your  duty  is  done,  —  now  don't  you  ? 


MISS   BLANCHE   SAYS  39 

I  know  your  answer.     I  'm  not  yet  through. 

Look  at  this  photograph,  —  "  In  the  Trenches  "  ! 
That  dead  man  in  the  coat  of  blue 

Holds  a  withered  rose  in  his  hand.     That  clenches 
Nothing  !  —  except  that  the  sun  paints  true, 

And  a  woman  is  sometimes  prophetic-minded. 
And  that 's  my  romance.     And,  poet,  you 
Take  it  and  mould  it  to  suit  your  view  ; 
And  who  knows  but  you  may  find  it  too 

Come  to  your  heart  once  more,  as  mine  did. 


AN   AECTIC   VISION 

WHERE  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 
Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  Polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware ; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine, 
And  by  night  another  vermin,  — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Elias'  cone  ; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships ; 
Land  of  fox  and  deer  and  sable, 
Shore  end  of  our  western  cable,  — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  Arctic  floes, 
And  reverberate  the  boast 
From  the  cliffs  off  Beechey's  coast, 
Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 
Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 
Throw  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 
To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 
Let  the  stately  Polar  bears 
Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 
And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 
Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory  ; 
While  the  bold  sea-unicorn 
Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn  ; 
All  ye  Polar  skies,  reveal  your 


AN  ARCTIC   VISION  41 

Very  rarest  of  parhelia ; 

Trip  it,  all  ye  merry  dancers, 

In  the  airiest  of  "  Lancers  ;  " 

Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 

One  inch  farther  to  the  tide, 

Nor  in  rash  precipitation 

Upset  Tyndall's  calculation. 

Know  you  not  what  fate  awaits  you, 

Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you  ? 

All  ye  icebergs,  make  salaam,  — 

You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam ! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Kuss  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold  ; 
Lean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor ! 
See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring ; 
On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain, 
Just  beside  the  deep  inden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild-duck's  clamor, 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 
With  its  linguistic  disguises, 
Lo  !  the  Arctic  prologue  rises : 
"Wall,  I  reckon  >t  ain't  so  bad, 
Seein'  ez  't  was  all  they  had. 


42  NATIONAL 

True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late, 
And  early  Falls  predominate ; 
But  the  ice-crop 's  pretty  sure, 
And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure  ; 
7T  ain't  so  very  mean  a  trade, 
When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 
There  }s  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 
All  along  this  recent  purchase, 
And,  unless  the  stories  fail, 
Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale  ; 
Rocks,  too  ;  mebbe  quartz  ;  let 's  see,  — 
?T  would  be  strange  if  there  should  be,  — 
Seems  I  've  heerd  such  stories  told  ; 
-  Eh !  —  why,  bless  us,  —  yes,  it 's  gold  !  " 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick, 
You  may  recognize  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw,  — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer. 


ST.    THOMAS 

(A  GEOGRAPHICAL    SURVEY,  1868) 

VERY  fair  and  full  of  promise 
Lay  the  island  of  St.  Thomas : 
Ocean  o'er  its  reefs  and  bars 
Hid  its  elemental  scars  ; 
Groves  of  cocoanut  and  guava 
Grew  above  its  fields  of  lava. 
So  the  gem  of  the  Antilles  — 
Isles  of  Eden,"  where  no  ill  is  — 
Like  a  great  green  turtle  slumbered 
On  the  sea  that  it  encumbered. 

Then  said  William  Henry  Seward, 
As  he  cast  his  eye  to  leeward, 
Quite  important  to  our  commerce 
Is  this  island  of  St.  Thomas." 

Said  the  Mountain  ranges,  "  Thank' ee, 
But  we  cannot  stand  the  Yankee 
O'er  our  scars  and  fissures  poring, 
In  our  very  vitals  boring, 
In  our  sacred  caverns  prying, 
All  our  secret  problems  trying,  — 
Digging,  blasting,  with  dynamit 
Mocking  all  our  thunders  !     Damn  it ! 
Other  lands  may  be  more  civil ; 
Bust  our  lava  crust  if  we  will ! " 

Said  the  Sea,  its  white  teeth  gnashing 
Through  its  coral-reef  lips  flashing, 


44  NATIONAL 

"  Shall  I  let  this  scheming  mortal 
Shut  with  stone  my  shining  portal, 
Curb  my  tide  and  check  my  play, 
Fence  with  wharves  my  shining  bay  ? 
Rather  let  me  be  drawn  out 
In  one  awful  waterspout !  " 

Said  the  black -browed  Hurricane, 
Brooding  down  the  Spanish  Main, 
61  Shall  I  see  my  forces,  zounds  ! 
Measured  by  square  inch  and  pounds^ 
With  detectives  at  my  back 
When  I  double  on  my  track, 
And  my  secret  paths  made  clear, 
Published  o'er  the  hemisphere 
To  each  gaping,  prying  crew  ? 
Shall  I  ?     Blow  me  if  I  do  !  " 

So  the  Mountains  shook  and  thundered, 
And  the  Hurricane  came  sweeping, 
And  the  people  stared  and  wondered 
As  the  Sea  came  on  them  leaping : 
Each,  according  to  his  promise, 
Made  things  lively  at-  St.  Thomas. 

Till  one  morn,  when  Mr.  Seward 
Cast  his  weather  eye  to  leeward, 
There  was  not  an  inch  of  dry  land 
Left  to  mark  his  recent  island. 
Not  a  flagstaff  or  a  sentry, 
Not  a  wharf  or  port  of  entry,  — 
Only  —  to  cut  matters  shorter  — 
Just  a  patch  of  muddy  water 
In  the  open  ocean  lying, 
And  a  gull  above  it  flying. 


OFF   SCAEBOEOUGH 
(SEPTEMBER,  1779) 


"  HAVE  a  care  !  "  the  bailiffs  cried 
From  their  cockleshell  that  lay 
Off  the  frigate's  yellow  side, 

Tossing  on  Scarborough  Bay, 
While  the  forty  sail  it  convoyed   on  a  bowline  stretched 

away. 

"  Take  your  chicks  beneath  your  wings, 
And  your  claws  and  feathers  spread, 
Ere  the  hawk  upon  them  springs,  — 

Ere  around  Flamborough  Head 

Swoops  Paul  Jones,  the  Yankee  falcon,  with  his  beak  and 
talons  red." 

ii 

How  we  laughed  !  —  my  mate  and  I,  — 

On  the  "  Bon  Homme  Eichard's  "  deck, 
As  we  saw  that  convoy  fly 

Like  a  snow-squall,  till  each  fleck 
Melted  in  the  twilight  shadows  of  the  coast-line,  speck  by 

speck ; 
And  scuffling  back  to  shore 

The  Scarborough  bailiffs  sped, 
As  the  "  Eichard,"  with  a  roar 

Of  her  cannon  round  the  Head, 

Crossed    her    royal    yards    and    signaled    to    her    consort: 
"  Chase  ahead  ! » 


46  NATIONAL 

III 
But  the  devil  seize  Landais 

In  that  consort  ship  of  France ! 
For  the  shabby,  lubber  way 

That  he  worked  the  "  Alliance  " 

In   the    offing,  —  nor  a   broadside   fired   save  to   our  mis 
chance  !  — 
When  tumbling  to  the  van, 

With  his  battle-lanterns  set, 
Rose  the  burly  Englishman 

'Gainst  our  hull  as  black  as  jet,  — 
Rode  the  yellow-sided  "  Serapis,"  and  all  alone  we  met ! 

IV 

All  alone,  though  far  at  sea 

Hung  his  consort,  rounding  to  ; 
All  alone,  though  on  our  lee 

Fought  our  "  Pallas,"  stanch  and  true  ! 
For  the  first  broadside  around  us  both  a  smoky  circle  drew : 
And,  like  champions  in  a  ring, 

There  was  cleared  a  little  space  — 
Scarce  a  cable's  length  to  swing  — 

Ere  we  grappled  in  embrace, 

All  the  world  shut  out  around  us,  and  we   only  face  to 
face ! 

v 

Then  awoke  all  hell  below 

From  that  broadside,  doubly  curst, 
For  our  long  eighteens  in  row 

Leaped  the  first  discharge  and  burst ! 
And  on  deck  our  men  came  pouring,  fearing  their  own  guns 

the  worst. 

And  as  dumb  we  lay,  till,  through 
Smoke  and  flame  and  bitter  cry, 


OFF   SCARBOROUGH  47 

Hailed  the  "  Serapis  :  "  "  Have  you 
Struck  your  colors  ?  "     Our  reply, 
u  We  have  not  yet  begun  to  fight ! "  went  shouting  to  the 

sky  ! 

VI 

K-oux  of  Brest,  old  fisher,  lay 

Like  a  herring  gasping  here ; 
Bunker  of  Nantucket  Bay, 

Blown  from  out  the  port,  dropped  sheer 
Half  a  cable's  length  to  leeward ;  yet  we  faintly  raised  a 

cheer 
As  with  his  own  right  hand 

Our  Commodore  made  fast 
The  foeman's  head-gear  and 

The  "  Richard's  "  mizzen-mast, 

And  in  that  death-lock  clinging  held  us  there  from  first  to 
last! 

VII 

Yet  the  foeman,  gun  on  gun, 

Through  the  "  Richard  "  tore  a  road, 
With  his  gunners'  rammers  run 

Through  our  ports  at  every  load, 
Till  clear  the  blue  beyond  us  through  our  yawning  timbers 

showed. 

Yet  with  entrails  torn  we  clung 

Like  the  Spartan  to  our  fox, 

And  on  deck  no  coward  tongue 

Wailed  the  enemy's  hard  knocks, 
Nor  that  all  below  us  trembled  like  a  wreck  upon  the  rocks. 

VIII 

Then  a  thought  rose  in  my  brain, 
As  through  Channel  mists  the  sun. 

From  our  tops  a  fire  like  rain 

Drove  below  decks  every  one 
Of  the  enemy's  ship's  company  to  hide  or  work  a  gun; 


48  NATIONAL 

And  that  thought  took  shape  as  I 

On  the  "  Richard's  "  yard  lay  out, 
That  a  man  might  do  and  die, 
If  the  doing  brought  ahout 

Freedom   for  his  home  and  country,  and  his  messmates' 
cheering  shout ! 

IX 

Then  I  crept  out  in  the  dark 

Till  I  hung  above  the  hatch 
Of  the  "  Serapis,"  —  a  mark 

For  her  marksmen  !  —  with  a  match 
And  a  hand-grenade,  but  lingered  just  a  moment  more  to 

snatch 
One  last  look  at  sea  and  sky  ! 

At  the  lighthouse  on  the  hill ! 
At  the  harvest-moon  on  high  ! 

And  our  pine  flag  fluttering  still ! 

Then  turned  and  down  her  yawning  throat  I  launched  that 
devil's  pill ! 


Then  a  blank  was  all  between 

As  the  flames  around  me  spun ! 
Had  I  fired  the  magazine  ? 

Was  the  victory  lost  or  won  ? 
Nor  knew  I  till  the  fight  was  o'er  but  half  my  work  was 

done  : 
For  I  lay  among  the  dead 

In  the  cockpit  of  our  foe, 
With  a  roar  above  my  head,  — 
Till  a  trampling  to  and  fro, 

And  a  lantern  showed  my  mate's  face,  and  I  knew  what 
now  you  know ! 


CADET   GREY 
CANTO  I 


ACT  first,  scene  first.     A  study.     Of  a  kind 
Half  cell,  half  salon,  opulent  yet  grave ; 

Rare  books,  low-shelved,  yet  far  above  the  mind 
Of  common  man  to'  compass  or  to  crave  ; 

Some  slight  relief  of  pamphlets  that  inclined 
The  soul  at  first  to  trifling,  till,  dismayed 

By  text  and  title,  it  drew  back  resigned, 
Nor  cared  with  levity  to  vex  a  shade 
That  to  itself  such  perfect  concord  made. 

II 

Some  thoughts  like  these  perplexed  the  patriot  brain 
Of  Jones,  Lawgiver  to  the  Commonwealth, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  this  chaste  domain 

He  paused  expectant,  and  looked  up  in  stealth 

To  darkened  canvases  that  frowned  amain, 
With  stern-eyed  Puritans,  who  first  began 

To  spread  their  roots  in  Georgius  Primus'  reign, 
Nor  dropped  till  now,  obedient  to  some  plan, 
Their  century  fruit,  —  the  perfect  Boston  man. 

in 

Somewhere  within  that  Russia-scented  gloom  • 
A  voice  catarrhal  thrilled  the  Member's  ear  : 

Brief  is  our  business,  Jones.     Look  round  this  room  I 
Regard  yon  portraits  !     Read  their  meaning  clear  ! 


50  NATIONAL 

These  much  proclaim  my  station.     I  presume 
You  are  our  Congressman,  before  whose  wit 

And  sober  judgment  shall  the  youth  appear 

Who  for  West  Point  is  deemed  most  just  and  fit 
To  serve  his  country  and  to  honor  it. 

TV 

**  Such  is  my  son  !     Elsewhere  perhaps  't  were  wise 

Trial  competitive  should  guide  your  choice. 
There  are  some  people  I  can  well  surmise 

Themselves  must  show  their  merits.     History's  voice 
Spares  me  that  trouble :   all  desert  that  lies 

In  yonder  ancestor  of  Queen  Anne's  day, 
Or  yon  grave  Governor,  is  all  my  boy's,  — 

Reverts  to  him  ;  entailed,  as  one  might  say  ; 

In  brief,  result  in  Winthrop  Adams  Grey !  " 


He  turned  and  laid  his  well-bred  hand,  and  smiled, 
On  the  cropped  head  of  one  who  stood  beside. 

Ah  me!   in  sooth  it  was  no  ruddy  child 

Nor  brawny  youth  that  thrilled  the  father's  pride; 

'T  was  but  a  Mind  that  somehow  had  beguiled 
From  soulless  Matter  processes  that  served 

For  speech  and  motion  and  digestion  mild, 
Content  if  all  one  moral  purpose  nerved, 
Nor  recked  thereby  its  spine  were  somewhat  curved, 

VI 

He  was  scarce  eighteen.     Yet  ere  he  was  eight 
He  had  despoiled  the  classics  ;  much  he  knew 

Of  Sanskrit ;  not  that  he  placed  undue  weight 
On  this,  but  that  it  helped  him  with  Hebrew, 

His  favorite  tongue.     He  learned,  alas  !  too  late, 
One  can't  begin  too  early,  —  would  regret 


CADET   GREY  51 

That  boyish  whim  to  ascertain  the  state 
Of  Venus'  atmosphere  made  him  forget 
That  philologic  goal  on  which  his  soul  was  set. 

VII 

He  too  had  traveled ;  at  the  age  of  ten 

Found  Paris  empty,  dull  except  for  art 
And  accent.      "  Mabille  "  with  its  glories  then 

Less  than  Egyptian    "  Almees  "  touched  a  heart 
Nothing  if  not  pure  classic.      If  some  men 

Thought  him  a  prig,  it  vexed  not  his  conceit, 
But  moved  his  pity,  and  ofttimes  his  pen, 

The  better  to  instruct  them,  through  some  sheet 

Published  in  Boston,  and  signed  "  Beacon  Street. " 

VIII 

From  premises  so  plain  the  blind  could  see 
But  one  deduction,  and  it  came  next  day. 
'In  times  like  these,  the  very  name  of  G. 

Speaks  volumes,"  wrote  the  Honorable  J. 
'*  Inclosed  please  find  appointment."     Presently 

Came  a  reception  to  which  Harvard  lent 
Fourteen  professors,  and,  to  give  esprit, 

The  Liberal  Club  some  eighteen  ladies  sent, 
Five  that  spoke  Greek,  and  thirteen  sentiment. 

IX 

/our  poets  came  who  loved  each  other's  song, 
And  two  philosophers,  who  thought  that  they 

Were  in  most  things  impractical  and  wrong ; 
And  two  reformers,  each  in  his  own  way 

Peculiar,  —  one  who  had  waxed  strong 

On  herbs  and  water,  and  such  simple  fare  ; 

Two  foreign  lions,  "  Earn  See  "  and  "  Chy  Long/' 
And  several  artists  claimed  attention  there, 
Based  on  the  fact  they  had  been  snubbed  elsewhere. 


52  NATIONAL 


With  this  indorsement  nothing  now  remained 

But  counsel,  Godspeed,  and  some  calm  adieux ; 
No  foolish  tear  the  father's  eyelash  stained, 

And  Winthrop's  cheek  as  guiltless  shone  of  dew. 
A  slight  publicity,  such  as  obtained 

In  classic  Rome,  these  few  last  hours  attended. 
The  day  arrived,  the  train  and  depot  gained, 

The  mayor's  own  presence  this  last  act  commended  ; 

The  train  moved  off,  and  here  the  first  act  ended. 


CANTO  H 


Where  West  Point  crouches,  and  with  lifted  shield 
Turns  the  whole  river  eastward  through  the  pass ; 

Whose  jutting  crags,  half  silver,  stand  revealed 
Like  bossy  bucklers  of  Leonidas ; 

Where  buttressed  low  against  the  storms  that  wield 
Their  summer  lightnings  where  her  eaglets  swarm, 

By  Freedom's  cradle  Nature's  self  has  steeled 
Her  heart,  like  Winkelried,  and  to  that  storm 
Of  leveled  lances  bares  her  bosom  warm. 

ii 

But  not  to-night.     The  air  and  woods  are  still, 
The  faintest  rustle  in  the  trees  below, 

The  lowest  tremor  from  the  mountain  rill, 
Come  to  the  ear  as  but  the  trailing  flow 

Of  spirit  robes  that  walk  unseen  the  hill ; 
The  moon  low  sailing  o'er  the  upland  farm, 

The  moon  low  sailing  where  the  waters  fill 
The  lozenge  lake,  beside  the  banks  of  balm, 
Gleams  like  a  chevron  on  the  river's  arm. 


CADET   GREY  53 

III 

All  space  breathes  languor :  from  the  hilltop  high, 
Where  Putnam's  bastion  crumbles  in  the  past, 

To  swooning  depths  where  drowsy  cannon  lie 

And  wide-mouthed  mortars  gape  in  slumbers  vast ; 

Stroke  upon  stroke,  the  far  oars  glance  and  die 
On  the  hushed  bosom  of  the  sleeping  stream ; 

Bright  for  one  moment  drifts  a  white  sail  by, 
Bright  for  one  moment  shows  a  bayonet  gleam 
Far  on  the  level  plain,  then  passes  as  a  dream. 

IV 

Soft  down  the  line  of  darkened  battlements, 
Bright  on  each  lattice  of  the  barrack  walls, 

Where  the  low  arching  sallyport  indents, 

Seen  through  its  gloom  beyond,  the  moonbeam  falls. 

All  is  repose  save  where  the  camping  tents 

Mock  the  white  gravestones  farther  on,  where  sound 

No  morning  guns  for  reveille,  nor  whence 

No  drum-beat  calls  retreat,  but  still  is  ever  found 
Waiting  and  present  on  each  sentry's  round. 

v 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  the  young,  the  brave, 
Half  knight,  half  schoolboy,  acolytes  of  fame, 

Pledged  to  one  altar,  and  perchance  one  grave ; 
Bred  to  fear  nothing  but  reproach  and  blame, 

Ascetic  dandies  o'er  whom  vestals  rave, 

Clean-limbed  young  Spartans,  disciplined  young  elves, 

Taught  to  destroy,  that  they  may  live  to  save, 
Students  embattled,  soldiers  at  their  shelves, 
Heroes  whose  conquests  are  at  first  themselves. 

VI 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  in  dreams  are  freed 
From  the  grim  discipline  they  learn  to  love ; 


54  NATIONAL 

In  dreams  no  more  the  sentry's  challenge  heed, 

In  dreams  afar  beyond  their  pickets  rove ; 
One  treads  once  more  the  piny  paths  that  lead 

To  his  green  mountain  home,  and  pausing  hears 
The  cattle  call ;   one  treads  the  tangled  weed 

Of  slippery  rocks  beside  Atlantic  piers ; 

One  smiles  in  sleep,  one  wakens  wet  with  tears. 

VII 

One  scents  the  breath  of  jasmine  flowers  that  twine 

The  pillared  porches  of  his  Southern  home ; 
One  hears  the  coo  of  pigeons  in  the  pine 

Of  Western  woods  where  he  was  wont  to  roam ; 
One  sees  the  sunset  fire  the  distant  line 

Where  the  long  prairie  sweeps  its  levels  down ; 
One  treads  the  snow-peaks  ;   one  by  lamps  that  shine 

Down  the  broad  highways  of  the  sea-girt  town ; 

And  two  are  missing,  —  Cadets  Grey  and  Brown  ! 

VIII 

Much  as  I  grieve  to  chronicle  the  fact, 

That  selfsame  truant  known  as  "  Cadet-  Grey  " 

Was  the  young  hero  of  our  moral  tract, 

Shorn  of  his  twofold  names  on  entrance-day. 

*;  Winthrop  "  and  "  Adams  "  dropped  in  that  one  act 

Of  martial  curtness,  and  the  roll-call  thinned 

Of  his  ancestors,  he  with  youthful  tact 

Indulgence  claimed,  since  Winthrop  no  more  sinned, 
Nor  sainted  Adams  winced  when  he,  plain  Grey^ 
"  skinned." 

IX 

He  had  known  trials  since  we  saw  him  last, 
By  sheer  good  luck  had  just  escaped  rejection, 

Not  for  his  learning,  but  that  it  was  cast 

In  a  spare  frame  scarce  fit  for  drill  inspection ; 


CADET   GREY  53 

But  when  he  ope'd  his  lips  a  stream  so  vast 
Of  information  flooded  each  professor, 

They  quite  forgot  his  eyeglass,  —  something  past 
All  precedent,  —  accepting  the  transgressor, 
Weak  eyes  and  all  of  which  he  was  possessor. 


E'en  the  first  day  he  touched  a  blackboard's  space  — 
So  the  tradition  of  his  glory  lingers  — 

Two  wise  professors  fainted,  each  with  face 
White  as  the  chalk  within  his  rapid  fingers : 

All  day  he  ciphered,  at  such  frantic  pace, 
His  form  was  hid  in  chalk  precipitation 

Of  every  problem,  till  they  said  his  case 
Could  meet  from  them  no  fair  examinatiop 
Till  Congress  made  a  new  appropriation. 

XI 

Famous  in  molecules,  he  demonstrated 

From  the  mess  hash  to  many  a  listening  classf ul ; 
Great  as  a  botanist,  he  separated 

Three  kinds  of  "  Mentha  "  in  one  julep's  glassful ; 
High  in  astronomy,  it  has  been  stated 

He  was  the  first  at  West  Point  to  discover 
Mars'  missing  satellites,  and  calculated 

Their  true  positions,  not  the  heavens  over, 

But  'neath  the  window  of  Miss  Kitty  Rovefc. 

XII 

Indeed,  I  fear  this  novelty  celestial 
That  very  night  was  visible  and  clear ; 

At  least  two  youths  of  aspect  most  terrestrial, 
And  clad  in  uniform,  were  loitering  near 

A  villa's  casement,  where  a  gentle  vestal 
Took  their  impatience  somewhat  patiently, 


56  NATIONAL 

Knowing     the     youths     were     somewhat     green     and 

«  bestial "  — 

(A  certain  slang  of  the  Academy, 
I  beg  the  reader  won't  refer  to  me). 

XIII 

For  when  they  ceased  their  ardent  strain,  Miss  Kitty 
Glowed  not  with  anger  nor  a  kindred  flame, 

But  rather  flushed  with  an  odd  sort  of  pity, 

Half  matron's  kindness,  and  half  coquette's  shame  ; 

Proud  yet  quite  blameful,  when  she  heard  their  ditty 
She  gave  her  soul  poetical  expression, 

And  being  clever  too,  as  she  was  pretty, 

From  her  high  casement  warbled  this  confession,  — 
Half  provocation  and  one  half  repression  :  — 


NOT  YET 

Not  yet,  0  friend,  not  yet !  the  patient  stars 
Lean  from  their  lattices,  content  to  wait. 
All  is  illusion  till  the  morning  bars 
Slip  from  the  levels  of  the  Eastern  gate. 
Night  is  too  young,  O  friend  !  day  is  too  near  ; 
Wait  for  the  day  that  maketh  all  things  clear. 
Not  yet,  0  friend,  not  yet  ! 

Not  yet,  0  love,  not  yet  !  all  is  not  true, 
All  is  not  ever  as  it  seemeth  now. 
Soon  shall  the  river  take  another  blue, 
Soon  dies  yon  light  upon  the  mountain  brow. 
What  lieth  dark,  0  love,  bright  day  will  fill; 
Wait  for  ifiy  morning,  be  it  good  or  ilL 
Not  yet,  0  love,  not  yet ! 


XIV 

The  strain  was  finished ;  softly  as  the  night 
Her  voice  died  from  the  window,  yet  e'en  then 


CADET   GREY  57 

Fluttered  and  fell  likewise  a  kerchief  white  ; 

But  that  no  doubt  was  accident,  for  when 
She  sought  her  couch  she  deemed  her  conduct  quite 

Beyond  the  reach  of  scandalous  commenter,  — 
Washing  her  hands  of  either  gallant  wight, 

Knowing  the  moralist  might  compliment  her,  — 

Thus  voicing  Siren  with  the  words  of  Mentor. 

xv 

She  little  knew  the  youths  below,  who  straight 
Dived  for  her  kerchief,  and  quite  overlooked 

The  pregnant  moral  she  would  inculcate  ; 

Nor  dreamed  the  less  how  little  Winthrop  brooked 

Her  right  to  doubt  his  soul's  maturer  state. 

Brown  —  who  was  Western,  amiable,  and  new  — 

Might  take  the  moral  and  accept  his  fate ; 
The  which  he  did,  but,  being  stronger  too, 
Took  the  white  kerchief,  also,  as  his  due. 

XVI 

They  did  not  quarrel,  which  no  doubt  seemed  queer 
To  those  who  knew  not  how  their  friendship  blended ; 

Each  was  opposed,  and  each  the  other's  peer, 
Yet  each  the  other  in  some  things  transcended. 

Where  Brown  lacked  culture,  brains,  —  and  oft,  I  fear, 
Cash  in  his  pocket,  —  Grey  of  course  supplied  him ; 

Where  Grey  lacked  frankness,  force,  and  faith  sincere, 
Brown  of  his  manhood  suffered  none  to  chide  him, 
But  in  his  faults  stood  manfully  beside  him. 

XVII 

In  academic  walks  and  studies  grave, 

In  the  camp  drill  and  martial  occupation, 

They  helped  each  other ;  but  just  here  I  crave 
Space  for  the  reader's  full  imagination,  — 


58  NATIONAL 

The  fact  is  patent,  Grey  became  a  slave  ! 

A  tool,  a  fag,  a  "  pleb  "  !     To  state  it  plainer, 

All  that  blue  blood  and  ancestry  e'er  gave 

Cleaned  guns,  brought  water  !  —  was,  in  fact,  retainer 
To  Jones,  whose  uncle  was  a  paper-stainer ! 

XVIII 

How  they  bore  this  at  home  I  cannot  say  : 

I  only  know  so  runs  the  gossip's  tale. 
It  chanced  one  day  that  the  paternal  Grey 

Came  to  West  Point  that  he  himself  might  hail 
The  future  hero  in  some  proper  way 

Consistent  with  his  lineage.      With  him  came 
A  judge,  a  poet,  and  a  brave  array 

Of  aunts  and  uncles,  bearing  each  a  name, 

Eyeglass  and  respirator  with  the  same. 

XIX 

"  Observe  !  "  quoth  Grey  the  elder  to  his  friends, 

"  Not  in  these  giddy  youths  at  baseball  playing 
You  '11  notice  Winthrop  Adams !     Greater  ends 

Than  these  absorb  his  leisure.     No  doubt  straying 
With  Caesar's  Commentaries,  he  attends 

Some  Roman  council.     Let  us  ask,  however, 
Yon  grimy  urchin,  who  my  soul  offends 

By  wheeling  offal,  if  he  will  endeavor 

To  find  —     What !    heaven  !    Winthrop  !     Oh  !  no  ! 
never !  " 


Alas  !  too  true  !     The  last  of  all  the  Greys 
Was  "  doing  polipe  detail,"  —  it  had  come 

To  this  ;  in  vain  the  rare  historic  bays 

That  crowned  the  pictured  Puritans  at  home  ! 

And  yet  }t  was  certain  that  in  grosser  ways 


CADET   GREY  59 

Of  health  and  physique  he  was  quite  improving. 
Straighter  he  stood,  and  had  achieved  some  praise 
In  other  exercise,  much  more  behooving 
A  soldier's  taste  than  merely  dirt  removing. 

XXI 

But  to  resume :  we  left  the  youthful  pair, 
Some  stanzas  back,  before  a  lady's  bower ; 

'T  is  to  be  hoped  they  were  no  longer  there, 
For  stars  were  pointing  to  the  morning  hour. 

Their  escapade  discovered,  ill  't  would  fare 
With  our  two  heroes,  derelict  of  orders  ; 

But,  like  the  ghost,  they  "  scent  the  morning  air/'   - 
And  back  again  they  steal  across  the  borders, 
Unseen,  unheeded,  by  their  martial  warders. 

XXII 

They  got  to  bed  with  speed  :   young  Grey  to  dream 
Of  some  vague  future  with  a  general's  star, 

And  Mistress  Kitty  basking  in  its  gleam ; 
While  Brown,  content  to  worship  her  afar, 

Dreamed  himself  dying  by  some  lonely  stream, 
Having  snatched  Kitty  from  eighteen  Nez  Perces, 

Till  a  far  bugle,  with  the  morning  beam, 
In  his  dull  ear  its  fateful  song  rehearses, 
Which  Winthrop  Adams  after  put  to  verses. 

XXIII 

So  passed  three  years  of  their  novitiate, 

The  first  real  boyhood  Grey  had  ever  known. 

His  youth  ran  clear,  —  not  choked  like  his  Cochituate, 
In  civic  pipes,  but  free  and  pure  alone  ; 

Yet  knew  repression,  could  himself  habituate 
To  having  mind  and  body  well  rubbed  down, 

Could  read  himself  in  others,  and  could  situate 


60  NATIONAL 

Themselves  in  him,  —  except,  I  grieve  to  own, 
He  could  n't  see  what  Kitty  saw  in  Brown  ! 

XXIV 

At  last  came  graduation  ;  Brown  received 
In  the  One  Hundredth  Cavalry  commission ; 

Then  frolic,  flirting,  parting,  —  when  none  grieved 
Save  Brown,  who  loved  our  young  Academician, 

And  Grey,  who  felt  his  friend  was  still  deceived 
By  Mistress  Kitty,  who  with  other  beauties 

Graced  the  occasion,  and  it  was  believed 

Had  promised  Brown  that  when  he  could  recruit  his 
Promised  command,  she  'd  share  with  him  those  duties 

XXV 

Howe'er  this  was  I  know  not ;   all  I  know, 

The  night  was  June's,  the  moon  rode  high  and  clear ; 
u  ?T  was  such  a  night  as  this,"  three  years  ago, 
Miss  Kitty  sang  the  song  that  two  might  hear. 

There  is  a  walk  where  trees  o'erarching  grow, 
Too  wide  for  one,  not  wide  enough  for  three 

(A  fact  precluding  any  plural  beau), 

Which  quite  explained  Miss  Kitty's  company, 
But  not  why  Grey  that  favored  one  should  be. 

XXVI 

There  is  a  spring,  whose  limpid  waters  hide 
Somewhere  within  the  shadows  of  that  path 

Called  Kosciusko's.     There  two  figures  bide,  — 
Grey  and  Miss  Kitty.      Surely  Nature  hath 

No  fairer  mirror  for  a  might-be  bride 

Than  this  same  pool  that  caught  our  gentle  belle 

To  its  dark  heart  one  moment.     At  her  side 

Grey  bent.     A  something  trembled  o'er  the  well, 
Bright,  spherical  —  a  tear  ?     Ah  no  !  a  button  fell ! 


CADET   GREY  61 

XXVII 

u  Material  minds  might  think  that  gravitation," 

Quoth  Grey,  "  drew  yon  metallic  spheroid  down. 
The  soul  poetic  views  the  situation 

Fraught  with  more  meaning.     When  thy  girlish  crown 
Was  mirrored  there,  there  was  disintegration 

Of  me,  and  all  my  spirit  moved  to  you, 
Taking  the  form  of  slow  precipitation  !  " 

But  here  came  "  Taps,"  a  start,  a  smile,  adieu  1 

A  blush,  a  sigh,  and  end  of  Canto  II. 

BUGLE  SONG 

Fades  the  light, 

And  afar 

Goeth  day,  cometh  night; 
And  a  star 

Leadeth  all, 
Speedeth  all 

To  their  rest! 

Love,  good-night ! 
Must  thou  go 
When  the  day 
And  the  light 

Need  thee  so,  — . 
Needeth  all, 
Heedeth  all, 

That  is  lest  ? 


CANTO  III 
i 

Where  the  sun  sinks  through  leagues  of  arid  sky, 
Where  the  sun  dies  o'er  leagues  of  arid  plain, 

Where  the  dead  bones  of  wasted  rivers  lie, 

Trailed  from  their  channels  in  yon  mountain  chain; 

Where  day  by  day  naught  takes  the  wearied  eye 


62  NATIONAL 

But  the  low-rimming  mountains,  sharply  based 
On  the  dead  levels,  moving  far  or  nigh, 
As  the  sick  vision  wanders  o'er  the  waste, 
But  ever  day  by  day  against  the  sunset  traced  : 

ii 

There  moving  through  a  poisonous  cloud  that  stings 
With  dust  of  alkali  the  trampling  band 

Of  Indian  ponies,  ride  on  dusky  wings 
The  red  marauders  of  the  Western  land ; 

Heavy  with  spoil,  they  seek  the  trail  that  brings 
Their  flaunting  lances  to  that  sheltered  bank 

Where  lie  their  lodges  ;  and  the  river  sings 
Forgetful  of  the  plain  beyond,  that  drank 
Its  life  blood,  where  the  wasted  caravan  sank. 

in 

They  brought  with  them  the  thief's  ignoble  spoil, 
The  beggar's  dole,  the  greed  of  ckiffonnier, 

The  scum  of  camps,  the  implements  of  toil 

Snatched  from  dead  hands,  to  rust  as  useless  here; 

All  they  could  rake  or  glean  from  hut  or  soil 

Piled  their  lean  ponies,  with  the  jackdaw's  greed 

For  vacant  glitter.      It  were  scarce  a  foil 
To  all  this  tinsel  that  one  feathered  reed 
Bore  on  its  barb  two  scalps  that  freshly  bleed ! 

IV 

They  brought  with  them,  alas !  a  wounded  foe, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  yet  nursed  with  cruel  care, 

Lest  that  in  death  he  might  escape  one  throe 
They  had  decreed  his  living  flesh  should  bear : 

A  youthful  officer,  by  one  foul  blow 

Of  treachery  surprised,  yet  fighting  still 

Amid  his  ambushed  train,  calm  as  the  snow 


CADET  GREY  63 

Above  him  ;  hopeless,  yet  content  to  spill 
His  blood  with  theirs,  and  fighting  but  to  kilL 


He  had  fought  nobly,  and  in  that  brief  spell 

Had  won  the  awe  of  those  rude  border  men 
Who  gathered  round  him,  and  beside  him  fell 

In  loyal  faith  and  silence,  save  that  when 
By  smoke  embarrassed,  and  near  sight  as  well, 

He  paused  to  wipe  his  eyeglass,  and  decide 
Its  nearer  focus,  there  arose  a  yell 

Of  approbation,  and  Bob  Barker  cried, 

"  Wade  in,  Dundreary  !  "  tossed  his  cap  and  —  died. 

VI 

Their  sole  survivor  now  !  his  captors  bear 
Him  all  unconscious,  and  beside  the  stream 

Leave  him  to  rest ;  meantime  the  squaws  prepare 
The  stake  for  sacrifice :  nor  wakes  a  gleam 

Of  pity  in  those  Furies'  eyes  that  glare 
Expectant  of  the  torture  ;  yet  alway 

His  steadfast  spirit  shines  and  mocks  them  there 
With  peace  they  know  not,  till  at  close  of  day 
On  his  dull  ear  there  thrills  a  whispered  "  Grey  ! " 

VII 

He  starts  !     Was  it  a  trick  ?     Had  angels  kind 

Touched  with  compassion  some  weak  woman's  breast  ? 
Such  things  he  'd  read  of !     Faintly  to  his  mind 

Came  Pocahontas  pleading  for  her  guest. 
But  then,  this  voice,  though  soft,  was  still  inclined 

To  baritone  !     A  squaw  in  ragged  gown 
Stood  near  him,  frowning  hatred.     Was  he  blind  ? 

Whose  eye  was  this  beneath  that  beetling  frown  ? 

The   frown   was   painted,   but    that   wink   meant  — 
Brown ! 


64  NATIONAL 

VIII 
"  Hush  !  f 01  your  life  arid  mine  !  the  thongs  are  cut," 

He  whispers  ;   "  in  yon  thicket  stands  my  horse. 
One  dash  !  —  I  follow  close,  as  if  to  glut 

My  own  revenge,  yet  bar  the  others'  course. 
[Now  !  "     And  't  is  done.      Grey  speeds,  Brown  follows ; 

but 

Ere  yet  they  reach  the  shade,  Grey,  fainting,  reels, 
Yet  not  before  Brown's  circling  arms  close  shut 
His  in,  uplifting  him !     Anon  he  feels 
A  horse  beneath  him  bound,  and  hears  the  rattling 
heels. 

IX 

Then  rose  a  yell  of  baffled  hate,  and  sprang 

Headlong  the  savages  in  swift  pursuit ; 
Though  speed  the  fugitives,  they  hope  to  hang 

Hot  on  their  heels,  like  wolves,  with  tireless  foot. 
Long  is  the  chase  ;   Brown  hears  with  inward  pang 

The  short,  hard  panting  of  his  gallant  steed 
Beneath  its  double  burden  ;  vainly  rang 

Both  voice  and  spur.     The  heaving  flanks  may  bleed,. 

Yet  comes  the  sequel  that  they  still  must  heed ! 

x 

Brown  saw  it  —  reined  his  steed ;  dismounting,  stood 

Calm  and  inflexible.     "  Old  chap  !    you  see 
There  is  but  one  escape.     You  know  it  ?     Good ! 

There  is  one  man  to  take  it.     You  are  he. 
The  horse  won't  carry  double.     If  he  could, 

?T  would  but  protract  this  bother.     I  shall  stay  : 
I  ?ve  business  with  these  devils,  they  with  me  ; 

I  will  occupy  them  till  you  get  away. 

Hush  !  quick  time,  forward.     There  !  God  bless  yon, 
Grey  ! " 


CADET  GREY  65 

XI 

But  as  he  finished,  Grey  slipped  to  his  feet, 

Calm  as  his  ancestors  in  voice  and  eye : 
You  do  forget  yourself  when  you  compete 

With  him  whose  right  it  is  to  stay  and  die : 
That 's  not  your  duty.     Please  regain  your  seat ; 

And  take  my  orders  —  since  I  rank  you  here  !  — 
Mount  and  rejoin  your  men,  and  my  defeat 

Report  at  quarters.     Take  this  letter  ;  ne'er 

Give  it  to  aught  but  her,  nor  let  aught  interfere." 

XII 

And,  shamed  and  blushing,  Brown  the  letter  took 

Obediently  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket ; 
Then,  drawing  forth  another,  said,  "  I  look 

For  death  as  you  do,  wherefore  take  this  locket 
And  letter."     Here  his  comrade's  hand  he  shook 

In  silence.      "  Should  we  both  together  jfall, 
Some  other  man  "  —  but  here  all  speech  forsook 

His  lips,  as  ringing  cheerily  o'er  all 

He  heard  afar  his  own  dear  bugle-call ! 

XIII 

'T  was  his  command  and  succor,  but  e'en  then 

Grey  fainted,  with  poor  Brown,  who  had  forgot 
He  likewise  had  been  wounded,  and  both  men 

Were  picked  up  quite  unconscious  of  their  lot. 
Long  lay  they  in  extremity,  and  when 

They  both  grew  stronger,  and  once  more  exchanged 
Old  vows  and  memories,  one  common  "  den  " 

In  hospital  was  theirs,  and  free  they  ranged, 

Awaiting  orders,  but  no  more  estranged. 

XIV 

And  yet  *t  was  strange  —  nor  can  I  end  my  tale 
Without  this  moral,  to  be  fair  and  just : 


66  NATIONAL 

They  never  sought  to  know  why  each  did  fail 
The  prompt  fulfillment  of  the  other's  trust. 

It  was  suggested  they  could  not  avail 

Themselves  of  either  letter,  since  they  were 

Duly  dispatched  to  their  address  by  mail 
By  Captain  X.,  who  knew  Miss  Eover  fair 
Now  meant   stout   Mistress  Bloggs   of  Blank    Blank 
Square. 


II.   SPANISH   IDYLS  AND   LEGENDS 
THE   MIRACLE   OF   PADRE   JUNIPERO 

THIS  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 
Tells  of  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 

The  heathen  stood  on  his  ancient  mound, 

Looking  over  the  desert  bound 

Into  the  distant,  hazy  South, 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Where,  with  many  a  gaping  mouth 

And  fissure,  cracked  by  the  fervid  drouth, 

For  seven  months  had  the  wasted  plain 

Known  no  moisture  of  dew  or  rain. 

The  wells  were  empty  and  choked  with  sand ; 

The  rivers  had  perished  from  the  land ; 

Only  the  sea-fogs  to  and  fro 

Slipped  like  ghosts  of  the  streams  below. 

Deep  in  its  bed  lay  the  river's  bones, 

Bleaching  in  pebbles  and  milk-white  stones, 

And  tracked  o'er  the  desert  faint  and  far, 

Its  ribs  shone  bright  on  each  sandy  bar. 

Thus  they  stood  as  the  sun  went  down 
Over  the  foot-hills  bare  and  brown ; 
Thus  they  looked  to  the  South,  wherefrom 
The  pale-face  medicine-man  should  come, 
Not  in  anger  or  in  strife, 


68  SPANISH  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS 

But  to  bring  —  so  ran  the  tale  — 
The  welcome  springs  of  eternal  life, 
The  living  waters  that  should  not  fail. 

Said  one,  "  He  will  come  like  Manitou, 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  the  falling  dew.'? 
Said  another,  "  He  will  come  full  soon 
Out  of  the  round-faced  watery  moon." 
And  another  said,  "  He  is  here !  "  and  lo, 
Faltering,  staggering,  feehle  and  slow, 
Out  from  the  desert's  blinding  heat 
The  Padre  dropped  at  the  heathen's  feet. 

They  stood  and  gazed  for  a  little  space 
Down  on  his  pallid  and  careworn  face, 
And  a  smile  of  scorn  went  round  the  band 
As  they  touched  alternate  with  foot  and  hand 
This  mortal  waif,  that  the  outer  space 
Of  dim  mysterious  sky  and  sand 
Flung  with  so  little  of  Christian  grace 
Down  on  their  barren,  sterile  strand. 

Said  one  to  him :  "  It  seems  thy  God 
Is  a  very  pitiful  kind  of  -God : 
He  could  not  shield  thine  aching  eyes 
From  the  blowing  desert  sands  that  rise, 
Nor  turn  aside  from  thy  old  gray  head 
The  glittering  blade  that  is  brandished 
By  the  sun  He  set  in  the  heavens  high ; 
He  could  not  moisten  thy  lips  when  dry ; 
The  desert  fire  is  in  thy  brain  ; 
Thy  limbs  are  racked  with  the  fever-pain  * 
If  this  be  the  grace  He  showeth  thee 
Who  art  His  servant,  what  may  we, 
Strange  to  His  ways  and  His  commands, 
Seek  at  His  unforgiving  hands  ?  " 


THE  MIRACLE   OF   PADRE   JUNIPERO  69 

"Drink  but  this  cup,"  said  the  Padre,  straight, 
"  And  thou  shalt  know  whose  mercy  bore 

These  aching  limbs  to  your  heathen  door, 

And  purged  my  soul  of  its  gross  estate. 

Drink  in  His  name,  and  thou  shalt  see 

The  hidden  depths  of  this  mystery. 

Drink !  "  and  he  held  the  cup.     One  blow 

From  the  heathen  dashed  to  the  ground  below 

The  sacred  cup  that  the  Padre  bore, 

And  the  thirsty  soil  drank  the  precious  store 

Of  sacramental  and  holy  wine, 

That  emblem  and  consecrated  sign 

And  blessed  symbol  of  blood  divine. 

Then,  says  the  legend  (and  they  who  doubt 

The  same  as  heretics  be  accurst), 

From  the  dry  and  feverish  soil  leaped  out 

A  living  fountain  ;  a  well-spring  burst 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Over  the  sandy  and  sterile  plain, 

Till  the  granite  ribs  and  the  milk-white  stone* 

That  lay  in  the  valley  —  the  scattered  bones  — 

Moved  in  the  river  and  lived  again  ! 

Such  was  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  cup  of  wine  that  fell 
From  the  hands  of  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


THE  WONDERFUL   SPRING    OF   SAN   JOAQUIN 

OF  all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing,  — 

Crystal,  thermal,  or  mineral  spring, 

Ponce  de  Leon's  Fount  of  Youth, 

Wells  with  bottoms  of  doubtful  truth,  — 

In  short,  of  all  the  springs  of  Time 

That  ever  were  flowing  in  fact  or  rhyme, 

That  ever  were  tasted,  felt,  or  seen, 

There  were  none  like  the  Spring  of  San  Joaquin. 

Anno  Domini  eighteen-seven, 

Father  Dominguez  (now  in  heaven,  — 

Obiit  eighteen  twenty-seven) 

Found  the  spring,  and  found  it,  too, 

By  his  mule's  miraculous  cast  of  a  shoe  ; 

For  his  beast  —  a  descendant  of  Balaam's  ass  •— 

Stopped  on  the  instant,  and  would  not  pass. 

The  Padre  thought  the  omen  good, 

And  bent  his  lips  to  the  trickling  flood; 

Then  —  as  the  Chronicles  declare, 

On  the  honest  faith  of  a  true  believer  — 

His  cheeks,  though  wasted,  lank,  and  bare, 

Filled  like  a  withered  russet  pear 

In  the  vacuum  of  a  glass  receiver, 

And  the  snows  that  seventy  winters  bring 

Melted  away  in  that  magic  spring. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  wondrous  news 
The  Padre  brought  into  Santa  Cruz. 


THE   WONDERFUL   SPRING  OF   SAN   JOAQUIN          71 

The  Church,  of  course,  had  its  own  views 
Of  who  were  worthiest  to  use 
The  magic  spring ;  but  the  prior  claim 
Fell  to  the  aged,  sick,  and  lame. 
Far  and  wide  the  people  came  : 
Some  from  the  healthful  Aptos  Creek 
Hastened  to  bring  their  helpless  sick ; 
Even  the  fishers  of  rude  Soquel 
Suddenly  found  they  were  far  from  well ; 
The  brawny  dwellers  of  San  Lorenzo 
Said,  in  fact,  they  had  never  been  so ; 
And  all  were  ailing,  —  strange  to  say,  — 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey. 

Over  the  mountain  they  poured  in, 
With  leathern  bottles  and  bags  of  skin ; 
Through  the  canons  a  motley  throng 
Trotted,  hobbled,  and  limped  along. 
The  Fathers  gazed  at  the  moving  scene 
With  pious  joy  and  with  souls  serene  ; 
And  then  —  a  result  perhaps  foreseen  — 
They  laid  out  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

Not  in  the  eyes  of  faith  alone 

The  good  effects  of  the  water  shone  ; 

But  skins  grew  rosy,  eyes  waxed  clear, 

Of  rough  vaquero  and  muleteer ; 

Angular  forms  were  rounded  out, 

Limbs  grew  supple  and  waists  grew  stout; 

And  as  for  the  girls,  —  for  miles  about 

They  had  no  equal  !     To  this  day, 

From  Pescadero  to  Monterey, 

You  ?11  still  find  eyes  in  which  are  seen 

The  liquid  graces  of  San  Joaquin. 


72  SPANISH  IDYLS   AND  LEGENDS 

There  is  a  limit  to  human  bliss, 

And  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin  had  this ; 

None  went  abroad  to  roam  or  stay 

But  they  fell  sick  in  the  queerest  way,  — 

A  singular  maladie  du  pays, 

With  gastric  symptoms :  so  they  spent 

Their  days  in  a  sensuous  content, 

Caring  little  for  things  unseen 

Beyond  their  bowers  of  living  green, 

Beyond  the  mountains  that  lay  between 

The  world  and  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

Winter  passed,  and  the  summer  came  ; 
The  trunks  of  madrono,  all  aflame, 
Here  and  there  through  the  underwood 
Like  pillars  of  fire  starkly  stood. 
All  of  the  breezy  solitude 

Was  filled  with  the  spicing  of  pine  and  bay 
And  resinous  odors  mixed  and  blended  ; 

And  dim  and  ghostlike,  far  away, 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  woods  ascended. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  mountains  swam, 
The  rivers  piled  their  floods  in  a  dam, 
The  ridge  above  Los  Gatos  Creek 

Arched  its  spine  in  a  feline  fashion ; 
The  forests  waltzed  till  they  grew  sick, 

And  Nature  shook  in  a  speechless  passion ; 
And,  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake's  spleen,- 
The  wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin 
Vanished,  and  never  more  was  seen ! 

Two  days  passed  :   the  Mission  folk 

Out  of  their  rosy  dream  awoke ; 

Some  of  them  looked  a  trifle  white, 

But  that,  no  doubt,  was  from  earthquake  fright. 


THE   WONDERFUL   SPRING  OF  SAN   JOAQUIN  73 

Three  days :   there  was  sore  distress, 
Headache,  nausea,  giddiness. 
Four  days  :  faintings,  tenderness 
Of  the  mouth  and  fauces  ;  and  in  less 
Than  one  week  —  here  the  story  closes  ; 
We  won't  continue  the  prognosis  — 
Enough  that  now  no  trace  is  seen 
Of  Spring  or  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

MORAL 

You  see  the  point  ?     Don't  be  too  quick 
To  break  bad  habits :   better  stick, 
Like  the  Mission  folk,  to  your  arsenic. 


THE  ANGELUS 
(HEARD  AT  THE  MISSION  DOLORES, 

BELLS  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 
Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 

Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  Present 
With  color  of  romance  ! 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 
On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 

As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices,  blending, 
Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 
No  blight  nor  mildew  falls  ; 

Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 
Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past ; 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream  and  last ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio ; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 
Above  the  setting  sun  ; 


THE   ANGELUS  75 

And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting, 
The  freighted  galleon. 

O  solemn  bells  !  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old  ; 
0  tinkling  bells  !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold  ! 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness,  — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still ; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill ! 


CONCEPCION  DE   AKGUELLO 
(PRESIDIO  DE  SAN  FRANCISCO,  isoo) 

i 

LOOKING  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills  stands  the  fortress, 

old  and  quaint, 
By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their  patron  saint,  — 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apostate  to  the  creed, 
On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw  the  angel's  golden 
reed  ; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all  its  blazon  brushed 

away  ; 
And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a  triumph  of  to-day. 

Never   scar    of    siege  or    battle   challenges   the  wandering 

eye, 
Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the  curious  passer-by ; 

Only  one   sweet   human  fancy  interweaves   its  threads  of 

gold 
With  the   plain    and  homespun   present,  and  a  love  that 

ne'er  grows  old  ; 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls  above  the  meaner 

dust,  — 
Listen  to  the  simple  story  of  a  woman's  love  and  trust. 


^       CONCEPCION  DE  AEGUELLO  77 

II 

Count  von  Resanoff,  the  Russian,  envoy  of  the  mighty  Czar, 
Stood  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  cannon 
are. 

He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  long  had  held  serene 

debate 
On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high  affairs  of  state ; 

He  from  grave  provincial  magnates  oft  had  turned  to  talk 

apart 
With  the  Commandante's  daughter  on  the  questions  of  the 

heart, 

Until  points  of  gravest  import  yielded  slowly  one  by  one, 
And  by  Love  was  consummated  what  Diplomacy  begun ; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
He  received  the  twofold  contract  for  approval  of  the  Czar ; 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  betrothed  bade  adieu, 
And  from  sallyport  and  gateway  north  the  Russian  eagles 
flew. 

in 
Long  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
Did  they  wait  the  promised  bridegroom  and  the  answer  of 

the  Czar  ; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the  hollow,  empty 

breeze,  — 
Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the  vacant,  smiling 

seas; 


78  SPANISH   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS 

Week   by  week   the  near   hills  whitened  in    their   dusty 

leather  cloaks,  — 
Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened  from  the   fringing 

plain  of  oaks ; 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far  breaking,  on  the  fierce  south- 
wester  tost, 

Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color,  and  then  vanished 
and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons    shifted,  —  wet   and  warm    and 

drear  and  dry  ; 
Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers,  half  a  year  of  dust  and 

sky. 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message,  —  brought  no  tidings, 

ill  or  meet, 
For  the  statesmanlike   Commander,  for  the  daughter  fair 

and  sweet. 

Yet  she  heard  the  varying  message,  voiceless  to  all  ears 

beside  : 
"  He  will  come,"  the  flowers  whispered  ;  "  Come  no  more," 

the  dry  hills  sighed. 

Still  she  found  him  with  the  waters  lifted  by  the  morning 

breeze,  — 
Still   she  lost  him  with  the  folding  of  the  great  white* 

tented  seas ; 

Until  hollows  chased  the  dimples  from  her  cheeks  of  olivo 

brown, 
And  at  times  a  swift,  shy  moisture  dragged  the  long  sweet 

lashes  down ; 


CONCEPCION   DE   AKGUELLO  79 

Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered  as  for  some  denied 

caress, 
And  the    fair   young    brow   was    knitted   in  an   infantine 

distress. 

Then  the  grim  Commander,  pacing  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
Comforted  the  maid  with  proverbs,  wisdom  gathered  from 

afar  ; 

Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers  garnered,  each 
As  a  pebble  worn    and    polished    in  the    current  of   his 
speech : 

"  '  Those  who  wait  the  coming  rider  travel  twice  as  far  as 

he;' 
'  Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never  did  in  time  agree ; ' 

t( '  He  that  getteth  himself  honey,  though  a  clown,  he  shall 

have  flies  ; ' 
*  In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller ;  J    '  In  the  dark  the 

mole  has  eyes  ; 7 

"  '  He  whose  father  is  Alcalde  of  his  trial  hath  no  fear/  — 
And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that  will  make  his  con 
duct  clear. " 

Then  the  voice   sententious  faltered,  and  the  wisdom  it 

would  teach 
Lost  itself  in  fondest  trifles  of  his  soft  Castilian  speech ; 

And   on    "Concha,"    " Conchitita,"    and    "Conchita"  he 

would  dwell 
With  the  fond  reiteration  which  the  Spaniard  knows  so 

well. 


80  SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

So  with  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  in  faith  and  half  in 

doubt, 
Every  day  some  hope  was  kindled,  nickered,  faded,  and 

went  out. 

IV 

Yearly,  down  the  hillside  sweeping,  came  the  stately  caval 
cade, 
Bringing  revel  to  vaquero,  joy  and  comfort  to  each  maid ; 

Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast  and  rustic  sport, 
Of  bull-baiting  on  the  plaza,  of  love-making  in  the  court. 

Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice,  vainly  as  the  idle  wind, 
Rose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that  bespoke  the  youth 
too  kind ; 

Vainly,  leaning  from  their    saddles,   caballeros,   bold    and 

fleet, 
Plucked  for  her  the  buried  chicken  from   beneath    their 

mustang's  feet ; 

So    in    vain    the   barren    hillsides  with  their    gay  scrapes 

blazed,  — 
Blazed  and  vanished  in   the  dust-cloud  that  their  flying 

hoofs  had  raised. 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart,  and  once  more, 

with  patient  mien, 
The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each  took  up  the  dull 

routine,  — 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life  apart  and  lone, 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in  its  dreary  mono- 
tone. 


CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO  81 

V 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion    swept  the  hollow  idle 

breeze, 
Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered  from  the  California  seas ; 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought  its  slow  but  sure 

decay, 
And  St.  George's  cross  was  lifted  in  the  port  of  Monterey ; 

And  the  citadel  was  lighted,  and  the  hall  was  gayly  drest, 
All    to  honor   Sir  George    Simpson,  famous    traveler   and 

guest. 

Far  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the  costly  banquet  set, 
And  exchanged  congratulations  with  the  English  baronet ; 

Till,  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and  amidst  the  laugh  and 
wine, 

Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover,  —  heedless  of  the  warn 
ing  sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson  :   "  Speak  no  ill  of 

him,  I  pray  ! 
He  is  dead.     He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty  years  ago  this 

day,— 

"Died  while  speeding  home  to  Russia,  falling  from  a  frac 
tious  horse. 

Left  a  sweetheart,  too,  they  tell  me.  Married,  I  suppose, 
of  course ! 

"  Lives  she  yet  ?  "     A  deathlike  silence  fell  on  banquet, 

guests,  and  hall, 
And  a  trembling  figure  rising  fixed  the  awestruck  gaze  of 

all. 


82  SPANISH  IDYLS  AND   LEGENDS 

Two  black  eyes  in  darkened  orbits  gleamed  beneath  the 

nun's  white  hood  ; 
Black    serge    hid  the  wasted   figure,  bowed    and   stricken 

where  it  stood. 

"  Lives  she  yet  ?  "  Sir  George  repeated.     All  were  hushed 

as  Concha  drew 

Closer  yet  her  nun's  attire.     "  Senor,  pardon,  she  died 
too!" 


"FOE  THE   KING" 
(NORTHERN  MEXICO,  1640) 

As  you  look  from  the  plaza  at  Leon  west 

You  can  see  her  house,  but  the  view  is  best 

From  the  porch  of  the  church  where  she  lies  at  rest ; 

Where  much  of  her  past  still  lives,  I  think, 
In  the  scowling  brows  and  sidelong  blink 
Of  the  worshiping  throng  that  rise  or  sink 

To  the  waxen  saints  that,  yellow  and  lank, 
Lean  out  from  their  niches,  rank  on  rank. 
With  a  bloodless  Saviour  on  either  flank ; 

In  the  gouty  pillars,  whose  cracks  begin 
To  show  the  adobe  core  within,  — 
A  soul  of  earth  in  a  whitewashed  skin. 

And  I  think  that  the  moral  of  all,  you'll  say, 
Is  the  sculptured  legend  that  moulds  away 
On  a  tomb  in  the  choir :   "  Por  el  Rey." 

Por  el  Key  !  "     Well,  the  king  is  gone 

Ages  ago,  and  the  Hapsburg  one 

Shot  —  but  the  Kock  of  the  Church  lives  on. 

Por  el  Key  !  "     What  matters,  indeed, 

If  king  or  president  succeed 

To  a  country  haggard  with  sloth  and  greed, 


84  SPANISH   IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS 

As  long  as  one  granary  is  fat, 

And  yonder  priest,  in  a  shovel  hat, 

Peeps  out  from  the  bin  like  a  sleek  brown  rat  ? 

What  matters  ?     Naught,  if  it  serves  to  bring 
The  legend  nearer,  —  no  other  thing,  — 
We  '11  spare  the  moral,  "  Live  the  king !  " 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  they  say, 
The  Viceroy,  Marquis  of  Monte-Bey, 
Rode  with  his  retinue  that  way : 

Grave,  as  befitted  Spain's  grandee  ; 
Grave,  as  the  substitute  should  be 
Of  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty  j 

Yet,  from  his  black  plume's  curving  grace 
To  his  slim  black  gauntlet's  smaller  space, 
Exquisite  as  a  piece  of  lace  ! 

Two  hundred  years  ago  —  e'en  so  — 

The  Marquis  stopped  where  the  lime-trees  blow, 

While  Leon's  seneschal  bent  him  low, 

And  begged  that  the  Marquis  would  that  night  take 
His  humble  roof  for  the  royal  sake, 
And  then,  as  the  custom  demanded,  spake 

The  usual  wish,  that  his  guest  would  hold 

The  house,  and  all  that  it  might  enfold, 

As  his  —  with  the  bride  scarce  three  days  old. 

Be  sure  that  the  Marquis,  in  his  place, 
Replied  to  all  with  the  measured  grace 
Of  chosen  speech  and  unmoved  face ; 


85 


Nor  raised  his  head  till  his  hlack  plume  swept 
The  hem  of  the  lady's  'robe,  who  kept 
Her  place,  as  her  husband  backward  stept. 

And  then  (I  know  not  how  nor  why) 
A  subtle  flame  in  the  lady's  eye  — 
Unseen  by  the  courtiers  standing  by  — 

Burned  through  his  lace  and  titled  wreath, 
Burned  through  his  body's  jeweled  sheath, 
Till  it  touched  the  steel  of  the  man  beneath! 

(And  yet,  mayhap,  no  more  was  meant 
Than  to  point  a  well-worn  compliment, 
And  the  lady's  beauty,  her  worst  intent.) 

Howbeit,  the  Marquis  bowed  again  : 
Who  rules  with  awe  well  serveth  Spain, 
But  best  whose  law  is  love  made  plain." 

Be  sure  that  night  no  pillow  prest 
The  seneschal,  but  with  the  rest 
Watched,  as  was  due  a  royal  guest,  — 

Watched  from  the  wall  till  he  saw  the  square 
Fill  with  the  moonlight,  white  and  bare,  — 
Watched  till  he  saw  two  shadows  fare 

Out  from  his  garden,  where  the  shade 
That  the  old  church  tower  and  belfry  made 
Like  a  benedictory  hand  was  laid. 

Few  words  spoke  the  seneschal  as  he  turned 

To  his  nearest  sentry  :   "  These  monks  have  learned 

That  stolen  fruit  is  sweetly  earned. 


86  SPANISH  IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

"  Myself  shall  punish  yon  acolyte 
Who  gathers  my  garden  grapes  by  night ; 
Meanwhile,  wait  thou  till  the  morning  light." 

Yet  not  till  the  sun  was  riding  high 
Did  the  sentry  meet  his  commander's  eye, 
Nor  then  till  the  Viceroy  stood  by. 

To  the  lovers  of  grave  formalities 

No  greeting  was  ever  so  fine,  I  wis, 

As  this  host's  and  guest's  high  courtesies ! 

The  seneschal  feared,  as  the  wind  was  west, 
A  blast  from  Morena  had  chilled  his  rest ; 
The  Viceioy  languidly  confest 

That  cares  of  state,  and  —  he  dared  to  say  — 
Some  fears  that  the  King  could  not  repay 
The  thoughtful  zeal  of  his  host,  some  way 

Had  marred  his  rest.  Yet  he  trusted  much 
None  shared  his  wakefulness ;  though  such 
Indeed  might  be  !  If  he  dared  to  touch 

A  theme  so  fine  —  the  bride,  perchance, 
Still  slept !     At  least,  they  missed  her  glancfc 
To  give  this  greeting  countenance. 

Be  sure  that  the  seneschal,  in  turn, 

Was  deeply  bowed  with  the  grave  concern 

Of  the  painful  news  his  guest  should  learn : 

**  Last  night,  to  her  father's  dying  bed 
By  a  priest  was  the  lady  summoned ; 
Nor  know  we  yet  how  well  she  sped, 


"FOR   THE   KING"  87 

"  But  hope  for  the  best."     The  grave  Viceroy 
(Though  grieved  his  visit  had  such  alloy) 
Must  still  wish  the  seneschal  great  joy 

Of  a  bride  so  true  to  her  filial  trust ! 
Yet  now,  as  the  day  waxed  on,  they  must 
To  horse,  if  they  ?d  'scape  the  noonday  dust. 

"Nay,"  said  the  seneschal,  "  at  least, 
To  mend  the  news  of  this  funeral  priest, 
Myself  shall  ride  as  your  escort  east." 

The  Viceroy  bowed.     Then  turned  aside 
To  his  nearest  follower  :   "  With  me  ride  — 
You  and  Felipe  —  on  either  side. 

"  And  list !     Should  anything  me  befall, 
Mischance  of  ambush  or  musket-ball, 
Cleave  to  his  saddle  yon  seneschal ! 

"No  more."  Then  gravely  in  accents  clear 
Took  formal  leave  of  his  late  good  cheer ; 
Whiles  the  seneschal  whispered  a  musketeer, 

Carelessly  stroking  his  pommel  top  : 
"  If  from  the  saddle  ye  see  me  drop, 
Riddle  me  quickly  yon  solemn  fop !  " 

So  these,  with  many  a  compliment, 
Each  on  his  own  dark  thought  intent, 
With  grave  politeness  onward  went, 

Riding  high,  and  in  sight  of  all, 
Viceroy,  escort,  and  seneschal, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  Almandral ; 


88  SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

Holding  their  secret  hard  and  fast, 
Silent  and  grave  they  ride  at  last 
Into  the  dusty  traveled  Past. 

Even  like  this  they  passed  away 
Two  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 
What  of  the  lady  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 

Do  the  souls  of  the  dying  ever  yearn 

To  some  favored  spot  for  the  dust's  return, 

For  the  homely  peace  of  the  family  urn  ? 

I  know  not.      Yet  did  the  seneschal, 
Chancing  in  after-years  to  fall 
Pierced  hy  a  Flemish  musket-ball, 

Call  to  his  side  a  trusty  friar, 

And  bid  him  swear,  as  his  last  desire, 

To  bear  his  corse  to  San  Pedro's  choir 

At  Leon,  where  'neath  a  shield  azure 
Should  his  mortal  frame  find  sepulture  : 
This  much,  for  the  pains  Christ  did  endure. 

Be  sure  that  the  friar  loyally 
Fulfilled  his  trust  by  land  and  sea, 
Till  the  spires  of  Leon  silently 

Rose  through  the  green  of  the  Almandral, 

As  if  to  beckon  the  seneschal 

To  his  kindred  dust  'neath  the  choir  wall. 

I  wot  that  the  saints  on  either  side 

Leaned  from  their  niches  open-eyed 

To  see  the  doors  of  the  church  swing  wide ; 


"FOR  THE  KING"  89 

That  the  wounds  of  the  Saviour  on  either  flank 
Bled  fresh,  as  the  mourners,  rank  by  rank, 
Went  by  with  the  coffin,  clank  on  clank. 

For  why  ?     When  they  raised  the  marble  door 
Of  the  tomb,  untouched  for  years  before, 
The  friar  swooned  on  the  choir  floor ; 

For  there,  in  her  laces  and  festal  dress, 
Lay  the  dead  man's  wife,  her  loveliness 
Scarcely  changed  by  her  long  duress,  — 

As  on  the  night  she  had  passed  away ; 

Only  that  near  her  a  dagger  lay, 

With  the  written  legend,  "  Por  el  Eey." 

What  was  their  greeting,  the  groom  and  bride, 
They  whom  that  steel  and  the  years  divide  ? 
I  know  not.     Here  they  lie  side  by  side. 

Side  by  side !      Though  the  king  has  his  way, 
Even  the  dead  at  last  have  their  day. 
Make  you  the  moral.     "  Por  el  Bey  1  " 


KAMON 
(BEPUGIO  MINE,  NORTHERN  MEXICO) 

DRUNK  and  senseless  in  his  place, 

Prone  and  sprawling  on  his  face, 
More  like  brute  than  any  man 
Alive  or  dead, 

By  his  great  pump  out  of  gear, 

Lay  the  peon  engineer, 

Waking  only  just  to  hear, 
Overhead, 

Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 

Oaths  and  cries  of  bitter  blame,  — 
Woke  to  hear  all  this,  and,  waking,  turned  and  fled  ! 

"  To  the  man  who  '11  bring  to  me," 

Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine,  — 
"  Bring  the  sot  alive  or  dead, 
I  will  give  to  him,"  he  said, 
"  Fifteen  hundred  pesos  down, 
Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine  : 

Since  but  death 
Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 
Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed, 
Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath,  — 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine ! " 


KAMON  91 

No  one  answered  ;  for  a  cry 
From  the  shaft  rose  up  on  high, 
And  shuffling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  below, 
Came  the  miners  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  weaker's  shoulder, 
Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go, 

As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well,  — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Down  below  ! 

"  To  the  man  who  sets  them  free," 

Cried  the  foreman,  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine,  — 
"  Brings  them  out  and  sets  them  free, 

I  will  give  that  man,"  said  he, 
"  Twice  that  sum,  who  with  a  rope 

Face  to  face  with  Death  shall  cope. 

Let  him  come  who  dares  to  hope  !  " 
"  Hold  your  peace  !  "  some  one  replied, 

Standing  by  the  foreman's  side  ; 
u  There  has  one  already  gone,  whoe'er  he  be  ! " 

Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 

Pulling  on  the  rope,  and  saw 

Fainting  figures  reappear, 

On  the  black  rope  swinging  clear, 
Fastened  by  some  skillful  hand  from  below ; 

Till  a  score  the  level  gained, 

And  but  one  alone  remained,  — 

He  the  hero  and  the  last, 

He  whose  skillful  hand  made  fast 
The  long  line  that  brought  them  back  to  hope  and  cheer ! 


92  SPANISH  IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

Haggard,  gasping,  down  dropped  he 
At  the  feet  of  Harry  Lee,  — . 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine. 
"  I  have  come/'  he  gasped,  "  to  claim 
Both  rewards.     Seiior,  my  name 

Is  Ramon ! 

1 7m  the  drunken  engineer, 
I  'm  the  coward,  Seiior  "  —     Here 
He  fell  over,  by  that  sign, 
Dead  as  stone  1 


DON  DIEGO   OF  THE   SOUTH 

(REFECTORY,  MISSION  SAN  GABRIEL,  1869) 

GOOD  !  —  said  the  Padre,  —  believe  me  still, 

Don  Giovanni,"  or  what  you  will, 

The  type  's  eternal !     We  knew  him  here 

As  Don  Diego  del  Sud.      I  fear 

The  story 's  no  new  one  !     Will  you  hear  ? 

One  of  those  spirits  you  can't  tell  why 

God  has  permitted.     Therein  I 

Have  the  advantage,  for  /  hold 

That  wolves  are  sent  to  the  purest  fold, 

And  we  'd  save  the  wolf  if  we  'd  get  the  lambc 

You  're  no  believer  ?     Good  !     I  am. 

Well,  for  some  purpose,  I  grant  you  dim, 
The  Don  loved  women,  and  they  loved  him. 
Each  thought  herself  his  last  love  !     Worst, 
Many  believed  that  they  were  his  first ! 
And,  such  are  these  creatures  since  the  Fall, 
The  very  doubt  had  a  charm  for  all ! 

You  laugh  !     You  are  young,  but  I —  indeed 

I  have  no  patience  ...     To  proceed :  — 

You  saw,  as  you  passed  through  the  upper  town, 

The  Eucinal  where  the  road  goes  down 

To  San  Felipe  !     There  one  morn 

They  found  Diego,  —  his  mantle  torn, 


94  SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

And  as  many  holes  through  his  doublet's  band 

As  there  were  wronged  husbands  —  you  understand  ! 

"  Dying,"  so  said  the  gossips.      "  Dead  " 
Was  what  the  friars  who  found  him  said. 
May  be.      Quien  sabe  ?     Who  else  should  know  ? 
It  was  a  hundred  years  ago. 
There  was  a  funeral.      Small  indeed  — 
Private.     What  would  you  ?     To  proceed :  — 

Scarcely  the  year  had  flown.     One  night 
The  Commandante  awoke  in  fright, 
Hearing  below  his  casement's  bar 
The  well-known  twang  of  the  Don's  guitar ; 
And  rushed  to  the  window,  just  to  see 
His  wife  a-swoon  on  the  balcony. 

One  week  later,  Don  Juan  Ramirez 
Found  his  own  daughter,  the  Dona  Inez, 
Pale  as  a  ghost,  leaning  out  to  hear 
The  song  of  that  phantom  cavalier. 
Even  Alcalde  Pedro  Bias 
Saw,  it  was  said,  through  his  niece's  glass, 
The  shade  of  Diego  twice  repass. 

What  these  gentlemen  each  confessed 
Heaven  and  the  Church  only  knows.     At  best 
The  case  was  a  bad  one.     How  to  deal 
With  Sin  as  a  Ghost,  they  could  n't  but  feel 
Was  an  awful  thing.     Till  a  certain  Fray 
Humbly  offered  to  show  the  way. 

And  the  way  was  this.     Did  I  say  before 
That  the  Fray  was  a  stranger  ?     No,  Seiior  ? 
Strange  !  very  strange  !     I  should  have  said 


DON   DIEGO   OF   THE   SOUTH  95 

That  the  very  week  that  the  Don  lay  dead 
He  came  among  us.     Bread  he  broke 
Silent,  nor  ever  to  one  he  spoke. 
So  he  had  vowed  it !     Below  his  brows 
His  face  was  hidden.      There  are  such  vows ! 

Strange  !  are  they  not  ?     You  do  not  use 
Snuff  ?     A  bad  habit ! 

Well,  the  views 

Of  the  Fray  were  these  :  that  the  penance  done 
By  the  caballeros  was  right ;  but  one 
Was  due  from  the  cause,  and  that,  in  brief, 
Was  Dona  Dolores  Gomez,  chief, 
And  Inez,  Sanchicha,  Concepcion, 
And  Carmen,  —  well,  half  the  girls  in  town 
On  his  tablets  the  Friar  had  written  down. 

These  were  to  come  on  a  certain  day 
And  ask  at  the  hands  of  the  pious  Fray 
For  absolution.     That  done,  small  fear 
But  the  shade  of  Diego  would  disappear. 

They  came  ;  each  knelt  in  her  turn  and  place 
To  the  pious  Fray  with  his  hidden  face 
And  voiceless  lips,  and  each  again 
Took  back  her  soul  freed  from  spot  or  stain, 
Till  the  Dona  Inez,  with  eyes  downcast 
And  a  tear  on  their  fringes,  knelt  her  last. 

And  then  —  perhaps  that  her  voice  was  low 
From  fear  or  from  shame  —  the  monks  said  so  — 
But  the  Fray  leaned  forward,  when,  presto !  all 
Were  thrilled  by  a  scream,  and  saw  her  fall 
Fainting  beside  the  confessional. 


86  SPANISH  IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

And  so  was  the  ghost  of  Diego  laid 
As  the  Fray  had  said.     Never  more  his  shade 
Was  seen  at  San  Gabriel's  Mission.     Eh ! 
The  girl  interests  you  ?     I  dare  say  ! 
"  Nothing/'  said  she,  when  they  brought  her  to  — •=> 
"  Only  a  faintness  !  "     They  spoke  more  true 
Who  said  't  was  a  stubborn  soul.     But  then  — 
Women  are  women,  and  men  are  men  ! 

So,  to  return.     As  I  said  before, 

Having  got  the  wolf,  by  the  same  high  law 

We  saved  the  lamb  in  the  wolf  's  own  jaw, 

And  that's  my  moral.     The  tale,  I  fear, 

But  poorly  told.     Yet  it  strikes  me  here 

Is  stuff  for  a  moral.     What 's  your  view  ? 

You  smile,  Don  Pancho.     Ah !  that  's  like  you  J 


AT   THE   HACIENDA 

KNOW  I  not  whom  thou  mayst  be 
Carved  upon  this  olive-tree,  — 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre,'7  — 
For  around  on  broken  walls 
Summer  sun  and  spring  rain  falls, 
And  in  vain  the  low  wind  calls 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 

Of  that  song  no  words  remain 
But  the  musical  refrain,  — 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 
Yet  at  night,  when  winds  are  still, 
Tinkles  on  the  distant  hill 
A  guitar,  and  words  that  thrill 

Tell  to  me  the  old,  old  story,  — 
Old  when  first  thy  charms  were  sung, 
Old  when  these  old  walls  were  young, 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 


FKIAK   PEDRO'S   KIDE 

IT  was  the  morning  season  of  the  year ; 

It  was  the  morning  era  of  the  land ; 
The  watercourses  rang  full  loud  and  clear ; 

Portala's  cross  stood  where  Portala's  hand 
Had  planted  it  when  Faith  was  taught  by  Fear, 

When  monks  and  missions  held  the  sole  command 
Of  all  that  shore  beside  the  peaceful  sea, 
Where  spring-tides  beat  their  long-drawn  reveille. 

Out  of  the  mission  of  San  Luis  Eey, 

All  in  that  brisk,  tumultuous  spring  weather, 

Bode  Friar  Pedro,  in  a  pious  way, 

With  six  dragoons  in  cuirasses  of  leather, 

Each  armed  alike  for  either  prayer  or  fray ; 

Handcuffs  and  missals  they  had  slung  together, 

And  as  an  aid  the  gospel  truth  to  scatter 

Each  swung  a  lasso  —  alias  a  "  riata." 

In  sooth,  that  year  the  harvest  had  been  slack, 
The  crop  of  converts  scarce  worth  computation ; 

Some  souls  were  lost,  whose  owners  had  turned  back 
To  save  their  bodies  frequent  flagellation ; 

And  some  preferred  the  songs  of  birds,  alack  ! 
To  Latin  matins  and  their  souls'  salvation, 

And  thought  their  own  wild  whoopings  were  less  dreary 

Than  Father  Pedro's  droning  miserere. 

To  bring  them  back  to  matins  and  to  prime, 
To  pious  works  and  secular  submission, 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE  99 

To  prove  to  them  that  liberty  was  crime,  — 
This  was,  in  fact,  the  Padre's  present  mission ; 

To  get  new  souls  perchance  at  the  same  time, 

And  bring  them  to  a  ?'  sense  of  their  condition,"  — 

That  easy  phrase,  which,  in  the  past  and  present, 

Means  making  that  condition  most  unpleasant. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  hill ; 
He  saw  the  gopher  working  in  his  burrow  ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will :  — • 
He  saw  all  this,  and  felt  no  doubt  a  thorough 

And  deep  conviction  of  God's  goodness ;  still 
He  failed  to  see  that  in  His  glory  He 
Yet  left  the  humblest  of  His  creatures  free. 

He  saw  the  flapping  crow,  whose  frequent  note 

Voiced  the  monotony  of  land  and  sky, 
Mocking  with  graceless  wing  and  rusty  coat 

His  priestly  presence  as  he  trotted  by. 
He  would  have  cursed  the  bird  by  bell  and  rote, 

But  other  game  just  then  was  in  his  eye,  — 
A  savage  camp,  whose  occupants  preferred 
Their  heathen  darkness  to  the  living  Word. 

He  rang  his  bell,  and  at  the  martial  sound 

Twelve  silver  spurs  their  jingling  rowels  clashed ; 

Six  horses  sprang  across  the  level  ground 
As  six  dragoons  in  open  order  dashed  ; 

Above  their  heads  the  lassos  circled  round, 
In  every  eye  a  pious  fervor  flashed ; 

They  charged  the  camp,  and  in  one  moment  more 

They  lassoed  six  and  reconverted  four. 

The  Friar  saw  the  conflict  from  a  knoll, 

And  sang  Laus  Deo  and  cheered  on  his  men : 


100  SPANISH  IDYLS   AND  LEGENDS 

"  Well  thrown,  Bautista,  —  that  >s  another  soul ; 

After  him,  Gomez,  —  try  it  once  again ; 
This  way,  Felipe,  —  there  the  heathen  stole ; 

Bones  of  St.  Francis  !  —  surely  that  makes  ten  / 
Te  Deum  laudamus  —  hut  they  're  very  wild ; 
Non  nobis  Domine  —  all  right,  my  child I" 

When  at  that  moment  —  as  the  story  goes  — 
A  certain  squaw,  who  had  her  foes  eluded, 

Ban  past  the  Friar,  just  before  his  nose. 

He  stared  a  moment,  and  in  silence  brooded  ; 

Then  in  his  breast  a  pious  frenzy  rose 

And  every  other  prudent  thought  excluded ; 

He  caught  a  lasso,  and  dashed  in  a  canter 

After  that  Occidental  Atalanta. 

High  o'er  his  head  he  swirled  the  dreadful  noose ; 

But,  as  the  practice  was  quite  unfamiliar, 
His  first  cast  tore  Felipe's  captive  loose, 

And  almost  choked  Tiburcio  Camilla, 
And  might  have  interfered  with  that  brave  youth's 

Ability  to  gorge  the  tough  tortilla  ; 
But  all  things  come  by  practice,  and  at  last 
His  flying  slip-knot  caught  the  maiden  fast. 

Then  rose  above  the  plain  a  mingled  yell 
Of  rage  and  triumph,  —  a  demoniac  whoop  : 

The  Padre  heard  it  like  a  passing  knell, 

And  would  have  loosened  his  unchristian  loop ; 

But  the  tough  raw-hide  held  the  captive  well, 
And  held,  alas  !   too  well  the  captor-dupe  ; 

For  with  one  bound  the  savage  fled  amain, 

Dragging  horse,  Friar,  down  the  lonely  plain. 

Down  the  arroyo,  out  across  the  mead, 

By  heath  and  hollow,  sped  the  flying  maid, 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE  101 

Dragging  behind  her  still  the  panting  steed 
And  helpless  Friar,  who  in  vain  essayed 

To  cut  the  lasso  or  to  check  his  speed. 
He  felt  himself  beyond  all  human  aid, 

And  trusted  to  the  saints,  —  and,  for  that  matter, 

To  some  weak  spot  in  Felipe's  riata. 

Alas !  the  lasso  had  been  duly  blessed, 

And,  like  baptism,  held  the  flying  wretch,  — 

A  doctrine  that  the  priest  had  oft  expressed, 

Which,  like  the  lasso,  might  be  made  to  stretch, 

But  would  not  break  ;   so  neither  could  divest 
Themselves  of  it,  but,  like  some  awful  fetch, 

The  holy  Friar  had  to  recognize 

The  image  of  his  fate  in  heathen  guise. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  hill ; 
He  saw  the  gopher  standing  in  his  burrow ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will :  — 
He  saw  all  this,  and  felt  no  doubt  how  thorough 

The  contrast  was  to  his  condition ;  still 
The  squaw  kept  onward  to  the  sea,  till  night 
And  the  cold  sea-fog  hid  them  both  from  sight. 

The  morning  came  above  the  serried  coast, 
Lighting  the  snow-peaks  with  its  beacon-fires, 

Driving  before  it  all  the  fleet-winged  host 
Of  chattering  birds  above  the  Mission  spires, 

Filling  the  land  with  light  and  joy,  but  most 
The  savage  woods  with  all  their  leafy  lyres  j 

In  pearly  tints  and  opal  flame  and  fire 

The  morning  came,  but  not  the  holy  Friar. 

Weeks  passed  away.      In  vain  the  Fathers  sought 
Some  trace  or  token  that  might  tell  his  story ; 


102  SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

Some  thought  him  dead,  or,  like  Elijah,  caught 
Up  to  the  heavens  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

In  this  surmise  some  miracles  were  wrought 
On  his  account,  and  souls  in  purgatory 

Were  thought  to  profit  from  his  intercession  j 

In  brief,  his  absence  made  a  "  deep  impression." 

A  twelvemonth  passed  ;   the  welcome  Spring  once  more 
Made  green  the  hills  beside  the  white-faced  Mission, 

Spread  her  bright  dais  by  the  western  shore, 
And  sat  enthroned,  a  most  resplendent  vision. 

The  heathen  converts  thronged  the  chapel  door 
At  morning  mass,  when,  says  the  old  tradition, 

A  frightful  whoop  throughout  the  church  resounded, 

And  to  their  feet  the  congregation  bounded. 

A  tramp  of  hoofs  upon  the  beaten  course, 

Then  came  a  sight  that  made  the  bravest  quail : 

A  phantom  Friar  on  a  spectre  horse, 

Dragged  by  a  creature  decked  with  horns  and  tail. 

By  the  lone  Mission,  with  the  whirlwind's  force, 
They  madly  swept,  and  left  a  sulphurous  trail : 

And  that  was  all,  —  enough  to  tell  the  story, 

And  leave  unblessed  those  souls  in  purgatory. 

And  ever  after,  on  that  fatal  day 

That  Friar  Pedro  rode  abroad  lassoing, 

A  ghostly  couple  came  and  went  away 

With  savage  whoop  and  heathenish  hallooing, 

Which  brought  discredit  on  San  Luis  Eey, 
And  proved  the  Mission's  ruin  and  undoing  ; 

For  ere  ten  years  had  passed,  the  squaw  and  Friar 

Performed  to  empty  walls  and  fallen  spire. 

The  Mission  is  no  more  ;  upon  its  walls 
The  golden  lizards  slip,  or  breathless  pause, 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE  103 

Still  as  the  sunshine  brokenly  that  falls 

Through  crannied  roof  and  spider-webs  of  gauze ; 

No  more  the  bell  its  solemn  warning  calls,  — 
A  holier  silence  thrills  and  overawes ; 

And  the  sharp  lights  and  shadows  of  to-day 

Outline  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Key. 


IN   THE   MISSION   GAKDEN 

(1865) 
FATHER    FELIPE 

I  speak  not  the  English  well,  but  Pachita, 
She  speak  for  me ;  is  it  not  so,  my  Pancha  ? 
Eh,  little  rogue  ?     Come,  salute  me  the  stranger 

Americano. 

Sir,  in  my  country  we  say,  "Where  the  heart  is, 
There  live  the  speech."     Ah  !  you  not  understand  ?     So  ! 
Pardon  an  old  man,  —  what  you  call  "  old  fogy,"  — 

Padre  Felipe ! 

Old,  Senor,  old !  just  so  old  as  the  Mission. 

You  see  that  pear-tree  ?     How  old  you  think,  Senor  ? 

Fifteen  year  ?     Twenty  ?     Ah,  Senor,  ^i  fifty 

Gone  since  I  plant  him ! 

You  like  the  wine  ?     It  is  some  at  the  Mission, 
Made  from  the  grape  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  ; 
All  the  same  time  when  the  earthquake  he  come  to 

San  Juan  Bautista. 

But  Pancha  is  twelve,  and  she  is  the  rose-tree  ; 
And  I  am  the  olive,  and  this  is  the  garden : 
And  "  Pancha  "  we  say,  but  her  name  is  "  Francisca," 

Same  like  her  mother. 


IN   THE   MISSION   GARDEN  105 

Eh,  you  knew  her  ?     No?     Ah !  it  is  a  story; 
But  I  speak  not,  like  Pachita,  the  English : 
So !   if  I  try,  you  will  sit  here  beside  me, 

And  shall  not  laugh,  eh  ? 

When  the  American  come  to  the  Mission, 
Many  arrive  at  the  house  of  Francisca : 
One,  —  he  was  fine  man,  —  he  huy  the  cattle 

Of  Jose  Castro. 

So !  he  came  much,  and  Francisca,  she  saw  him : 
And  it  was  love,  —  and  a  very  dry  season  ; 
And  the  pears  bake  on  the  tree,  —  and  the  rain  come, 

But  not  Francisca. 

Not  for  one  year ;  and  one  night  I  have  walk  much 
Under  the  olive-tree,  when  comes  Francisca,  — 
Comes  to  me  here,  with  her  child,  this  Francisca,  — 

Under  the  olive-tree. 

Sir,  it  was  sad ;  .  .   .  but  I  speak  not  the  English  ; 
So !   ...   she  stay  here,  and  she  wait  for  her  husband : 
He  come  no  more,  and  she  sleep  on  the  hillside ; 

There  stands  Pachita. 

Ah !  there 's  the  Angelus.     Will  you  not  enter  ? 
Or  shall  you  walk  in  the  garden  with  Pancha  ? 
Go,  little  rogue  —  st !  attend  to  the  stranger ! 

Adios,  Seiior. 

PACHITA  (briskly). 

So,  he 's  been  telling  that  yarn  about  mother ! 
Bless  you !  he  tells  it  to  every  stranger : 
Folks  about  yer  say  the  old  man 's  my  father ; 

What 's  your  opinion  ? 


THE   LOST   GALLEON* 

IN  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 

The  regular  yearly  galleon, 

Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice, 

India  cottons  and  India  rice, 

And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay, 

Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 

Due  she  was,  and  overdue,  — 
Galleon,  merchandise,  and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  line. 
The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town, 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  Viceroy  himself  came  down ; 
The  bells  in  the  tower  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  Deums  were  on  each  Father's  lip, 
The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 

All  in  vain.     Weeks  passed  away, 
And  yet  no  galleon  saw  the  bay. 
India  goods  advanced  in  price ; 
The  Governor  missed  his  favorite  spice ; 
The  Senoritas  mourned  for  sandal 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromandel ; 
And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband,  —  Dona  Julia, 
1  See  note,  p.  327. 


THE   LOST   GALLEON  107 

Wife  of  the  captain  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar  ; 
Even  the  Fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers ; 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year 
Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye 
That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry ; 
Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 
That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again ; 
And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 
Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 
More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 
In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one,  — 
Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done,  — 
And  folks  had  forgotten  the  galleon  : 
The  divers  plunged  in  the  gulf  for  pearla, 
White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls  ; 
The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars  ; 
The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 
And  oxen  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 
Came  and  went  on  the  mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while  ? 

Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle, 

Burnt  by  the  roving  sea-marauders, 

Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders  ? 

Had  she  found  the  Anian  passage  famed, 

By  lying  Maldonado  claimed, 

And  sailed  through  the  sixty-fifth  degree 

Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  Sea  ? 

Or  had  she  found  the  "  River  of  Kings," 

Of  which  De  Fonte  told  such  strange  things, 

In  sixteen  forty  ?     Never  a  sign, 


108  SPANISH  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS 

East  or  west  or  under  the  line, 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon  ; 

Never  a  sail  or  plank  or  chip 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure-ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how? 

Are  the  facts  we  're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day, 
Published  at  Madrid,  — por  el  Rey  ; 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 
Longitude  west  of  Madrid  :  there, 
Under  the  equatorial  glare, 
Just  where  the  east  and  west  are  one, 
You  '11  find  the  missing  galleon,  — 
You  '11  find  the  San  Gregorio,  yet 
Eiding  the  seas,  with  sails  all  set, 
Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 
She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?     What  strange  spell 
Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 
Free  from  decay  and  mortal:  taint  ? 
What  but  the  prayers  of  a  patron  saint ! 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manilla  town, 

The  San  Gregorio's  helm  came  down  •, 

Round  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 

A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 

That  rocked  on  the  waters  just  abreast 

Of  the  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-sou7- west. 

Then  said  the  galleon's  commandante, 
General  Pedro  Sobriente 


THE  LOST   GALLEON  109 

(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 

A  regular  custom  of  Old  Spain), 
"  My  pilot  is  dead  of  scurvy  :   may 

I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ?  " 

The  first  two  given  and  compared ; 

The  third  —  the  commandante  stared  ! 
"  The  first  of  June  ?     I  make  it  second." 

Said  the  stranger,  "  Then  you  've  wrongly  reckoned ; 

I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 

You  should  have  lost,  d'  ye  see,  a  day ; 

Lost  a  day,  as  plainly  see, 

On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 
"  Lost  a  day  ?  "     "  Yes  ;  if  not  rude, 

When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?  " 
"  On  the  ninth  of  May,  —  our  patron's  day." 
"  On  the  ninth  ?  —  you  had  no  ninth  of  May  ! 

Eighth  and  tenth  was  there  ;  but  stay  "  — 

Too  late ;  for  the  galleon  bore  away. 

Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept, 
Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept ; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  a  trackless  and  boundless  main  ;• 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse; 
Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day,  — 
What  would  the  holy  Fathers  say  ?  » 

Said  the  Fray  Antonio  Estavan, 
The  galleon's  chaplain,  —  a  learned  man,  — 
"  Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain ; 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing  is  plain, 
To  go  where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 
Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 


110  SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS 

Wait  till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  the  missing  day  be  found; 
For  you  '11  find,  if  computation  's  true, 
That  sailing  East  will  give  to  you 
Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two,  — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year." 

Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon  ; 

Where,  for  a  twelvemonth,  off  and  on 

The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 

She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea. 

But  lo  !  when  it  came  to  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot ; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 

To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 

She  never  saved  it.      Made  the  sport 

Of  evil  spirits  and  baffling  wind, 

She  was  always  before  or  just  behind, 

One  day  too  soon  or  one  day  too  late, 

And  the  sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait. 

She  had  two  Eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 

Two  Tenths,  but  never  a  Ninth  of  May  ; 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 

Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears ; 

Yet,  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served, 

Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation. that  still  holds  good, 
Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 
The  San  Gregorio  will  cross  that  line 


THE   LOST   GALLEON  111 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty -nine : 

Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 

From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 

And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 

Over  the  waters  looking  down, 

Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 

The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 

And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Rey, 

The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 

As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 

A  Te  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 

An  odor  of  spice  along  the  shore, 

A  crash,  a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck,  — 

And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more 

In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay ; 

For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 


Such  is  the  legend.  Hear  this  truth : 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 

Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 
Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 

Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint : 

Eaeh  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint  I 


III.   IN  DIALECT 
"JIM" 

SAY  there !     Fr'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild  ? 
Well,  —  no  offense  : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled  ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar  : 
That  's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir  !      You 
Ain't  of  that  crew,  — 

Blest  if  you,  are ! 

Money  ?     Not  much : 
That  ain't  my  kind  ; 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Kum  ?     I  don't  mind, 

Seein'  it 's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim,  — 
Did  you  know  him  ? 
Jes'  'bout  your  size  j 
Same  kind  of  eyes ;  — 


113 


Well,  that  is  strange : 
Why,  it  7s  two  year 
Since  he  came  here, 

Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here  's  to  us : 

Eh? 
The  h you  say ! 

Dead? 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star*, 

You  over  thar  ? 

Can't  a  man  drop 

?s  glass  in  yer  shop 

But  you  must  r'ar  ? 
It  would  n't  take 
D d  much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 

Poor  —  little  —  Jim  ! 
Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben,  — 
No-account  men  : 
Then  to  take  him  ! 

Well,  thar—    Good-by  — 
No  more,  sir — I  — 

Eh? 

What 's  that  you  say  ? 
Why,  dern  it !  —  sho !  — 
No  ?     Yes  !     By  Joe  ! 
'  Sold! 


IN  DIALECT 

Sold  !     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Denied  old 
Long-legged  Jim. 


CHIQTJITA 

BEAUTIFUL  !     Sir,  you  may  say  so.    Thar  is  n't  her  match 

in  the  county ; 

Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  —  thar  's  velvet !    Whoa !  steady,  — 

ah,  will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa  !  I  say.     Jack,  trot  her  out ;   let  the  gentleman  look 

at  her  paces. 

Morgan  !  —  she  ain't  nothing  else,  and  I  've  got  the  papers 

to  prove  it. 
Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars  won't 

buy  her. 
Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.     Did  you  know  Briggs  of 

Tuolumne  ? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains  down 

in  'Frisco  ? 

Hed  n't  no  savey,  hed  Briggs.     Thar,  Jack  !  that  '11  do,  — • 

quit  that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she  's  got  her  work  cut 

out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  bosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys  is 

jockeys  : 
And  *t  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  hoss  has 

got  in  him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flanigan's 

leaders  ? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in  low 

water ! 


116  IN   DIALECT 

Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and  his 

nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the  water 

all  round  us ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek  just 

a-bilin', 
Not   a  plank  left  in   the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 

river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his  nevey, 

Chiquita  ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top  of 

the  canon. 

JLickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chi 
quita 

Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and,  afore  I  could  yell  to 
her  rider, 

Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge  and 
me  standing, 

And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and 
a-drif tin'  to  thunder ! 

Would  ye  b'lieve  it  ?     That  night,  that  hoss,  that  'ar  filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet  and 

dripping  : 

Clean  as  a  heaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the   Fork,  —  that   hoss,    that  'ar  filly, 

Chiquita. 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and  —    What  did  you  say  ?  — 

Oh,  the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,  I  reckon,  —  leastways,  he  never  kem  back  to 

deny  it. 


CHIQUITA  117 

Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  ye  could  n't  have  made 

him  a  rider  j 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses  —  well, 

hosses  is  hosses ! 


DOW'S   FLAT 

(1856) 

Dow's  FLAT.     That 's  its  name ; 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true,  — 

For  thar  is  n't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the  place  at 
first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow,  — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass,  — 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass,  — 

Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye  down  here 
in  the  grass. 

You  see  this  'yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 

Why,  ef  he  'd  a  straddled  thet  fence-rail,  the  denied  thing 
'd  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunneled  with  Bates ; 

And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and  five 
kids  from  the  States. 


DOW'S  FLAT  119 

It  was  rough,  —  mighty  rough ; 
But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house,  on  the  sly ; 

And  the  old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing,  and  took  on 
when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  'yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 

Jbid  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a  drop  to 
be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  would  n't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 

And  his  wife  fell  away  ; 

But  Dow  in  his  well  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual  ridikilous 
way. 

One  day,  —  it  was  June,  — 

And  a  year  ago,  jest  — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 

With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  derringer  hid 
in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think : 

For  the  sun  in  his  eyes  (jest  like  this,  sir !),  you  see,  kinder 
made  the  cuss  blink. 


120  IN  DIALECT 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  napped  on  a  bay  : 

Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all,  —  as  I  've 
heer'd  the  folks  say. 

And  —  That 's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you  've  got,  —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh  !  —  Well,  then,  Dow  — 

Let 's  see,  —  well,  that  forty-foot  grave  was  n't  his,  sir,  that 
day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 

For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck  —  "  Water  ?  "  —  Beg 
your  parding,  young  man,  —  there  you 
lied! 

It  was  gold,  —  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike  ; 

And  that  house  with  the  coopilow  's  his'n,  —  which  the 
same  is  n't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet's  why  it 's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness : 

For  'twas  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin',  and  his  luck 
made  him  certain  to  miss. 


DOW'S   FLAT  121 

Thet  's  so  !     Thar 's  your  way, 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree ; 
But  —  a  —  look  h'yur,  say  ? 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No  ?     Well,  then  the  next  time  you  're  passin' ;  and  ask 
after  Dow,  —  and  thet  's  me. 


IN   THE   TUNNEL 

DID  N'T  know  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 
Long  as  he  's  been  'yar  ? 
Look  'ee  here,  stranger, 
Whar  hev  you  been  ? 

Here  in  this  tunnel 
He  was  my  pardner, 

That  same  Tom  Flynn,  — 
Working  together, 
In  wind  and  weather, 

Day  out  and  in. 

Did  n't  know  Flynn  ! 
Well,  that  is  queer  ; 

Why,  it 's  a  sin 

To  think  of  Tom  Flynn,  — » 
Tom  with  his  cheer, 
Tom  without  fear,  — 
Stranger,  look  'yar  ! 

Thar  in  the  drift, 

Back  to  the  wall, 
He  held  the  timbers 

Keady  to  fall ; 
Then  in  the  darkness 
I  heard  him  call : 

"  Run  for  your  life,  Jake ! 

Kun  for  your  wife's  sake  ! 
'     Don't  wait  for  me." 


IN  THE   TUNNEL  123 

And  that  was  all 
Heard  in  the  din, 
Heard  of  Tom  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That 's  all  about 

Flynn  of  Virginia. 
That  lets  me  out. 

Here  in  the  damp,  — 
Out  of  the  sun,  — 

That  'ar  derned  lamp 
Makes  my  eyes  run. 
Well,  there,  —I  >m  done! 

But,  sir,  when  you  '11 
Hear  the  next  fool 

Asking  of  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 

Just  you  chip  in, 

Say  you  knew  Flynn  ; 
Say  that  you  ;ve  been  ;yar0 


«  CICELY  » 
(ALKALI  STATION) 

CICELY  says  you  ?re  a  poet ;    maybe,  —  I  ain't   much  on 

rhyme : 
I  reckon  you'd  give  me  a  hundred,  and  beat  me  every 

time. 

Poetry  !  —  that 's  the  way  some  chaps  puts  up  an  idee, 
But  I  takes    mine  "straight    without    sugar,"  and  that's 

what 's  the  matter  with  me. 

Poetry  !  —  just  look  round  you,  —  alkali,  rock,  and  sage ; 
Sage-brush,  rock,  and  alkali ;  ain't  it  a  pretty  page ! 
Sun  in  the  east  at  mornin',  sun  in  the  west  at  night, 
And  the  shadow  of  this  'yer  station  the  on'y  thing  moves 
in  sight. 

Poetry  !  —  Well  now  —  Polly  !  Polly,  run  to  your  mam ; 
Run  right  away,  my  pooty  !     By-by  !      Ain't  she  a  lamb  ? 
Poetry  !  —  that  reminds  me  o'  suthin'  right  in  that  suit : 
Jest  shet  that  door  thar,  will  yer  ?  —  for  Cicely's  ears  is 
cute. 

Ye  noticed  Polly,  —  the  baby  ?     A  month  afore  she  was 

born, 

Cicely  —  my  old  woman  —  was  moody-like  and  forlorn ; 
Out    of   her   head  and    crazy,   and  talked  of  flowers  and 

trees ; 
Family  man  yourself,  sir  ?    Well,  you  know  what  a  woman 

be's. 


"CICELY"  125 

Narvous  she  was,  and  restless,  —  said  that  she  "  could  n't 

stay." 

gtay !  —  and  the  nearest  woman  seventeen  miles  away. 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he  would  be 

on  hand, 
And  I  kinder  stuck  by  the  shanty,  and  fenced  in  that  bit  oj 

land. 

One  night,  —  the  tenth  of  October,  —  I  woke  with  a  chill 

and  a  fright, 
For  the  door  it  was  standing  open,  and  Cicely  warn't  in 

sight, 
But  a  note  was  pinned  on  the  blanket,  which  it  said  that 

she  "  could  n't  stay," 
But  had    gone   to  visit   her  neighbor,  —  seventeen   miles 

away ! 

When  and  how  she  stampeded,  I  did  n't  wait  for  to  see, 
For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild  as  she ; 
Kunning  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound  that  is 

off  the  scent, 
For  there  warn't  no  track  in  the  darkness  to  tell  me  the 

way  she  went. 

I  've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kern  to  this 

spot,  — 

Lost  on  the  Plains  in  '50,  drownded  almost  and  shot ; 
But  out  on  this  alkali  desert,  a-hunting  a  crazy  wife, 
Was  ra'ly  as  on-satis-factory  as  anything  in  my  life. 

"  Cicely  !  Cicely !  Cicely  !  "  I  called,  and  I  held  my  breath, 
And  "  Cicely !  "  came  from  the  canyon,  —  and  all  was  as 

still  as  death. 

And  "  Cicely  !  Cicely  !  Cicely  !  "  came  from  the  rocks  below, 
And  jest  but  a  whisper  of   "  Cicely !  "  down  from  them 

peaks  of  snow. 


126  IN  DIALECT 

I  ain't  what  you  call  religious,  —  but  I  jest  looked  up  to 

the  sky, 
And  —  this  'yer  's  to  what  I  'm  coming,  and  maybe  ye  think 

I  lie: 

But  up  away  to  the  east'ard,  yaller  and  big  and  far, 
I  saw  of  a  suddent  rising  the  singlerist  kind  of  star. 

Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon  to  me : 
Yaller  and  big  and  dancing,  such  as  you  never  see : 
Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  —  I  never  saw  such  a  star, 
And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I  went 
for  it  then  and  thar. 

Over  the  brush  and  bowlders  I  stumbled  and  pushed  ahead  ; 

Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wherever  it  led. 

It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  suddent  and  peart  am* 

nigh, 
Out  of  the  y earth  afore  me  thar  riz  up  a  baby's  cry. 

Listen !  thar  's  the  same   music  ;  but  her   lungs   they  are 

stronger  now 
Than  the  day  I  packed  her  and  her  mother,  —  I  'm  derned 

if  I  jest  know  how. 
But  the  doctor  kem  the  next  -minit,  and  the  joke  o'  the 

whole  thing  is 
That  Cis  never  knew  what  happened  from  that  very  night 

to  this ! 

But  Cicely  says  you  're  a  poet,  and  maybe  you  might,  some 

day, 
Jest   sling   her  a   rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born  in  a 

curious  way, 
And  see  what  she  says ;  and,  old  fellow,  when  you  speak  of 

the  star,  don't  tell 
As  how  't  was  the  doctor's  lantern,  —  for  maybe  ;t  won't 

sound  so  well. 


PENELOPE 
(SIMPSON'S  BAR,  1858) 

So  you  've  kem  'yer  agen, 

And  one  answer  won't  do  ? 
Well,  of  all  the  derned  men 

That  I  've  struck,  it  is  you. 

0  Sal !  'yer  's  that  derned  fool  from  Simpson's,  cavortin* 
round  'yer  in  the  dew. 

Kem  in,  ef  you  will. 

Thar,  —  quit !     Take  a  cheer. 
Not  that ;  you  can't  fill 

Them  theer  cushings  this  year,  — 

For  that  cheer  was  my  old  man's,  Joe  Simpson,  and  they 
don't  make  such  men  about  'yer. 

He  was  tall,  was  my  Jack, 
And  as  strong  as  a  tree. 
Thar 's  his  gun  on  the  rack,  — 

Jest  you  heft  it,  and  see. 

And  you  come  a  courtin'  his  widder !     Lord  !  where  can 
that  critter,  Sal,  be  ! 

You  'd  fill  my  Jack's  place  ? 

And  a  man  of  your  size,  — 
With  no  baird  to  his  face, 
Nor  a  snap  to  his  eyes, 

And  nary  —  Sho  !  thar  !  I  was  foolin',  —I  was,  Joe,  for 
sartain,  —  don't  rise. 


128  IN   DIALECT 

Sit  down.     Law  !  why,  sho  ! 
,     I  'm  as  weak  as  a  gal. 
Sal !     Don't  you  go,  Joe, 

Or  I  '11  faint,  —  sure,  I  shall. 

Sit  down,  —  anywheer,  where  you  like,  Joe,  —  in  that 
cheer,  if  you  choose,  —  Lord  !  where  's 
Sal? 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE   FEOM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES 
(TABLE  MOUNTAIN,  1870) 

WHICH  I  wish  to  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny, 
In  regard  to  the  same, 

What  that  name  might  imply ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  Euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  blajnd. 


130  IN  DIALECT 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve, 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see,  - — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "  he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty -four  jacks,  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts  ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers,  —  that 's  wax. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE   FROM   TRUTHFUL   JAMES         ISl 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,  — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


THE   SOCIETY   UPON  THE   STANISLAUS 

I  RESIDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James ; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games ; 
And  1 '11  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man, 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "  put  a  head  "  on  him. 

Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months7  proceedings  of  that  same  Society, 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  -a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare ; 
And  Jones   then   asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension  of  the 

rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his 

lost  mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at 

fault, 

It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family  vault ; 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 


THE   SOCIETY  UPON   THE   STANISLAUS  133 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass,  —  at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him,  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  raised  a  point  of  order,  when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on  the 

floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age  ; 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was 

a  sin, 
Till    the    skull    of   an   old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of 

Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James ; 
And  I  've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 


LUKE 

(iN    THE    COLORADO    PARK,    1873) 

WOT  *s  that  you  're  readin '  ?  —  a  novel  ?    A  novel !  —  well, 

darn  my  skin  ! 
You  a   man  grown  and  bearded  and  histin'  such  stuff  ez 

that  in  — 
Stuff  about  gals  and  their  sweethearts  !     No  wonder  you  're 

thin  ez  a  knife. 
Look  at  me  !  —  clar  two  hundred  —  and  never  read  one  in 

my  life ! 

That 's  my  opinion  oj  novels.     And  ez  to  their  lyin'  round 

here, 
They  belong  to  the  Jedge's  daughter  —  the  Jedge  who  came 

up  last  year 
On  account  of  his  lungs  and  the  mountains  and  the  balsam 

o'  pine  and  fir ; 
And  his  daughter  —  well,  she  read  novels,  and  that  ?s  what  'a 

the  matter  with  her. 

Yet  she  was  sweet  on  the  Jedge,  and  stuck  by  him  day  and 

night, 
Alone  in  the  cabin  up  'yer  —  till  she  grew  like  a  ghost,  all 

white. 
She  wus  only  a  slip  of  a  thing,  ez  light  and  ez  up  and 

away 
Ez  rifle  smoke  blown  through  the  woods,  but  she  was  n't 

my  kind  —  no  way  ! 


LUKE  135 

Speakin'   o'   gals,  d'ye  mind  that  house   ez  you  rise  the 

hill, 
A  mile  and  a  half  from  White's,  and  jist  above  Mattingly's 

mill? 
You  do  ?     Well  now  thar  's  a  gal !    What !  you  saw  her  ? 

Oh,  come  now,  thar  !  quit ! 
She  was  only  bedevlin'  you  boys,  for  to  me  she  don't  cotton 

one  bit. 

Now  she  's  what  I  call  a  gal  —  ez  pretty  and  plump  ez  a 
quail ; 

Teeth  ez  white  ez  a  hound's,  and  they  'd  go  through  a  ten- 
penny  nail ; 

Eyes  that  kin  snap  like  a  cap.  So  she  asked  to  know 
"  whar  I  was  hid  ?  " 

She  did  !  Oh,  it 's  jist  like  her  sass,  for  she 's  peart  ez  a 
Katydid. 

But  what   was  I  talking  of  ?  —  Oh !  the  Jedge    and   his 

daughter  —  she  read 
Novels  the  whole  day  long,  and   I  reckon  she  read  them 

abed; 
And  sometimes  she  read  them  out  loud  to  the  Jedge  on  the 

porch  where  he  sat, 
And  't  was  how  "  Lord    Augustus "   said   this,    and  how 

"  Lady  Blanche  "  she  said  that. 

But  the  sickest  of  all   that  I  heerd  was  a  yarn  thet  they 

read  'bout  a  chap, 
"  Leather-stocking "  by  name,  and  a  hunter  chock  full  o' 

the  greenest  o'  sap ; 
And  they  asked  me  to  hear,  but  I  says,  "  Miss  Mabel,  not 

any  for  me ; 
When  I  likes  I  kin  sling  my  own  lies,  and  thet  chap  and  I 

should  n't  agree." 


136  IN   DIALECT 

Yet  somehow  or  other  that  gal  allus  said  that  I  hrought  her 

to  mind 
Of  folks  about  whom  she  had  read,  or  suthin  belike  of  thet 

kind, 
And  thar  warn't  no  end  o'  the  names  that  she  give  me  thet 

summer  up  here  — 
"  Robin  Hood,'7  "  Leather-stocking,"  "  Kob  Koy,"  —  Oh,  I 

tell  you,  the  critter  was  queer ! 

And  yet,  ef  she  had  n't  been  spiled,  she  was  harmless  enough 

in  her  way ; 
She  could  jabber  in  French  to  her  dad,  and  they  said  that 

she  knew  how  to  play  ; 
And  she  worked  me   that  shot-pouch  up  thar,  which  the 

man  does  n't  live  ez  kin  use  ; 
And  slippers  —  you  see  'em  down  'yer  —  ez  would  cradle  an 

Injin;s  papoose. 

Yet  along  o'  them  novels,   you  see,  she  was  wastin'  and 

mopin'  away, 
And  then  she  got  shy  with  her  tongue,  and  at  last  she  had 

nothin'  to  say  ; 
And  whenever  I  happened  around,  her  face  it  was  hid  by  a 

book, 
And  it  warn't  till  the  day  she  left  that  she  give  me  ez  much 

ez  a  look. 

And  this  was  the  way  it  was.  It  was  night  when  I  kern 
up  here 

To  say  to  'em  all  "good-by,"  for  I  reckoned  to  go  for 
deer 

At  "  sun  up  "  the  day  they  left.  So  I  shook  'em  all  round 
by  the  hand, 

'Cept  Mabel,  and  she  was  sick,  ez  they  give  me  to  under 
stand. 


LUKE  13? 

But  jist  ez  I  passed  the  house  next  morning  at  dawn,  some 

one, 
Like  a  little  waver  o'  mist  got  up  on  the   hill  with  the 

sun; 
Miss  Mabel  it  was,   alone  —  all  wrapped    in   a  mantle  o' 

lace  — 
And  she  stood  there  straight  in  the  road,  with  a  touch  o* 

the  sun  in  her  face. 

And  she  looked  me  right  in  the  eye  —  1 7d  seen  suthuV  like 

it  before 
When  I  hunted  a  wounded  doe  to  the  edge  o7  the  Clear 

Lake  Shore, 
And  I  had  my  knee  on  its  neck,  and  I  jist  was  raisin7  my 

knife, 
When  it  give  me  a  look  like  that,  and  —  well,  it  got  off  with 

its  life. 

"  We  are  going  to-day,"  she  said,  "  and  I  thought  I  would 

say  good-by 
To  you  in  your  own  house,  Luke  —  these  woods  and  the 

bright  blue  sky ! 
You  've  always  been  kind  to  us,  Luke,  and  papa  has  found 

you  still 
As  good  as  the  air  he  breathes,  and  wholesome  as  Laurel 

Tree  Hill. 

"  And  we  '11  always  think  of  you,  Luke,  as  the  thing  we 

could  not  take  away,  — 
The  balsam   that  dwells  in  the  woods,  the  rainbow  that 

lives  in  the  spray. 
And  you  '11  sometimes  think  of  me,  Luke,  as  you  know  you 

once  used  to  say, 
A.  rifle  smoke   blown  through  the  woods,  a  moment,  but 

never  to  stay. " 


138  IN  DIALECT 

And  then  we  shook  hands.      She  turned,  but  a-suddent  she 

tottered  and  fell, 
And  I  caught  her  sharp  hy  the  waist,  and  held  her  a  minifc. 

Well, 
It  was  only  a  minit,  you  know,  thet  ez  cold  and  ez  white 

she  lay 
Ez  a  snowflake  here  on  my  breast,  and  then  —  well,  she 

melted  away  — 

And  was  gone.   .  .   .  And  thar  are  her  books ;   but  I  says 

not  any  for  me  ; 
Good  enough  may  be  for  some,  but  them  and  I  might  n't 

agree. 
They  spiled  a  decent  gal  ez  might  hev  made  some  chap  a 

wife, 
And  look  at  me  !  —  clar  two  hundred  —  and  never  read  one 

in  my  life  1 


"THE   BABES   IN   THE   WOODS" 
(BIG  PINE  FLAT,  1871) 

"  SOMETHING  characteristic,"  eh  ? 

Humph  !     I  reckon  you  mean  by  that 
Something  that  happened  in  our  way, 

Here  at  the  crossin'  of  Big  Pine  Flat. 
Times  are  n't  now  as  they  used  to  be, 

When  gold  was  flush  and  the  boys  were  frisky, 
And  a  man  would  pull  out  his  battery 

For  anything  —  maybe  the  price  of  whiskey. 

Nothing  of  that  sort,  eh  ?     That  's  strange  ! 

Why,  I  thought  you  might  be  diverted 
Hearing  how  Jones  of  Red  Rock  Range 

Drawed  his  "  hint  to  the  unconverted," 
And  saying,  "  Whar  will  you  have  it  ?  "  shot 

Cherokee  Bob  at  the  last  debating  ! 
What  was  the  question  I  forgot, 

But  Jones  did  n't  like  Bob's  way  of  stating. 

Nothing  of  that  kind,  eh  ?     You  mean 

Something  milder  ?     Let 's  see  !  —  O  Joe  ! 
Tell  to  the  stranger  that  little  scene 

Out  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Woods."     You  know, 
"  Babes  "  was  the  name  that  we  gave  'em,  sir, 

Two  lean  lads  in  their  teens,  and  greener 
Than  even  the  belt  of  spruce  and  fir 

Where  they  built  their  nest,  and  each  day  grew  leaner. 


140  IN  DIALECT 

No  one  knew  where  they  came  from.     None 

Cared  to  ask  if  they  had  a  mother. 
Runaway  schoolboys,  maybe.      One 

Tall  and  dark  as  a  spruce  ;  the  other 
Blue  and  gold  in  the  eyes  and  hair, 

Soft  and  low  in  his  speech,  but  rarely 
Talking  with  us ;  and  we  did  n't  care 

To  get  at  their  secret  at  all  unfairly. 

For  they  were  so  quiet,  so  sad  and  shy, 

Content  to  trust  each  other  solely, 
That  somehow  we  'd  always  shut  one  eye, 

And  never  seem  to  observe  them  wholly 
As  they  passed  to  their  work.     'T  was  a  worn-out  claim, 

And  it  paid  them  grub.     They  could  live  without  it, 
For  the  boys  had  a  way  of  leaving  game 

In  their  tent,  and  forgetting  all  about  it. 

Yet  no  one  asked  for  their  secret.     Dumb 

It  lay  in  their  big  eyes'  heavy  hollows. 
It  was  understood  that  no  one  should  come 

To  their  tent  unawares,  save  the  bees  and  swallows. 
So  they  lived  alone.      Until  one  warm  night 

I  was  sitting  here  at  the  tent-door,  —  so,  sir ! 
When  out  of  the  sunset's  rosy  light 

Up  rose  the  Sheriff  of  Mariposa. 

I  knew  at  once  there  was  something  wrong, 

For  his  hand  and  his  voice  shook  just  a  little, 
And  there  is  n't  much  you  can  fetch  along 

To  make  the  sinews  of  Jack  Hill  brittle. 
"  Go  warn  the  Babes !  "  he  whispered,  hoarse ; 

"  Tell  them  I  'm  coming  —  to  get  and  scurry  ; 
For  I  've  got  a  story  that 's  bad,  —  and  worse, 

I  've  got  a  warrant :  G — d  d — n  it,  hurry  !  " 


"THE   BABES   IN   THE   WOODS"  141 

Too  late  !  they  had  seen  him  cross  the  hill ; 

I  ran  to  their  tent  and  found  them  lying 
Dead  in  each  other's  arms,  and  still 

Clasping  the  drug  they  had  taken  flying. 
And  there  lay  their  secret  cold  and  bare, 

Their  life,  their  trial  —  the  old,  old  story ! 
For  the  sweet  blue  eyes  arid  the  golden  hair 

Was  a  woman's  shame  and  a  woman's  glory. 

J<  Who  were  they  ?  "     Ask  no  more,  or  ask 

The  sun  that  visits  their  grave  so  lightly ; 
Ask  of  the  whispering  reeds,  or  task 

The  mourning  crickets  that  chirrup  nightly. 
All  of  their  life  but  its  love  forgot, 

Everything  tender  and  soft  and  mystic, 
These  are  our  Babes  in  the  Woods,  —  you  ?ve 

Well  —  human  nature  —  that 's  characteristic. 


THE   LATEST   CHINESE  OUTRAGE 

IT  was  noon  by  the  sun ;  we  had  finished  our  game, 
And  was  passin'  remarks  goin'  back  to  our  claim  ; 
Jones  was  countin'  his  chips,  Smith  relievin'  his  mind 
Of  ideas  that  a  "  straight  "  should  beat  "  three  of  a  kind," 
When  Johnson  of  Elko  came  gallopin'  down, 
With  a  look  on  his  face  'twixt  a  grin  and  a  frown, 
And  he  calls,  "  Drop  your  shovels  and  face  right  about, 
For  them  Chinees  from  Murphy's  are  cleanin'  us  out  — 

With  their  ching-a-ring-chow 

And  their  chic-colorow 

They're  bent  upon  making 

No  slouch  of  a  row." 

Then  Jones  —  my  own  pardner  —  looks  up  with  a  sigh  ; 
"  It 's  your  wash-bill,"  sez  he,  and  I  answers,  "  You  lie  ! " 
But  afore  he  could  draw  or  the  others  could  arm, 
Up  tumbles  the  Bates  boys,  who 'heard  the  alarm. 
And  a  yell  from  the  hill-top  and  roar  of  a  gong, 
Mixed  up  with  remarks  like  "  Hi !  yi !  Chang-a-wong," 
And  bombs,  shells,  and  crackers,  that  crashed  through  the 

trees, 
Kevealed  in  their  war-togs  four  hundred  Chinees ! 

Four  hundred  Chinee ; 

We  are  eight,  don't  ye  see  ! 

That  made  a  square  fifty 

To  just  one  o'  we. 

They  were  dressed  in  their  best,  but  I  grieve  that  that  same 
Was  largely  made  up  of  our  own,  to  their  shame ; 


THE   LATEST   CHINESE   OUTRAGE  143 

And  my  pardner's  best  shirt  and  his  trousers  were  hung 
On  a  spear,  and  above  him  were  tauntingly  swung  ; 
While  that  beggar,  Chey  Lee,  like  a  conjurer  sat 
Pullin'  out  eggs  and  chickens  from  Johnson's  best  hat; 
And  Bates's  game  rooster  was  part  of  their  "  loot," 
And  all  of  Smith's  pigs  were  skyugled  to  boot ; 
But  the  climax  was  reached  and  I  like  to  have  died 
When  my  demijohn,  empty,  came  down  the  hillside,  -^ 

Down  the  hillside  — 

What  once  held  the  pride 

Of  Robertson  County 

Pitched  down  the  hillside  ! 

Then  we  axed  for  a  parley.     When  out  of  the  din 
To  the  front  comes  a-rockin'  that  heathen,  Ah  Sin ! 
"  You  owe  flowty  dollee  —  me  washee  you  camp, 
You  catchee  my  washee  —  me  catchee  no  stamp  ; 
One  dollar  hap  dozen,  me  no  catchee  yet, 
Now  that  flowty  dollee  —  no  hab  ?  —  how  can  get  ? 
Me  catchee  you  piggee  —  me  sellee  for  cash, 
It  catchee  me  licee  —  you  catchee  no  '  hash ; ' 
Me  belly  good  Sheliff  —  me  lebbee  when  can, 
Me  allee  same  halp  pin  as  Melican  man  ! 

But  Melican  man 

He  washee  him  pan 

On  bottom  side  hillee 

And  catchee  —  how  can  ?  " 

"  Are  we  men  ?  "  says  Joe  Johnson,  "  and  list  to  this  jaw, 

Without  process  of  warrant  or  color  of  law  ? 

Are  we  men  or  —  a-chew  !  "  —  here  he  gasped  in  his  speech, 

For  a  stink-pot  had  fallen  just  out  of  his  reach. 

"  Shall  we  stand  here  as  idle,  and  let  Asia  pour 

Her  barbaric  hordes  on  this  civilized  shore  ? 

Has  the  White  Man  no  country  ?    Are  we  left  in  the  lurch? 

And  likewise  what 's  gone  of  the  Established  Church  ? 


144  IN   DIALECT 

One  man  to  four  hundred  is  great  odds,  I  own, 
But  this  '"yer  9a  a  White  Man  —  I  plays  it  alone  !  " 
And  he  sprang  up  the  hillside  —  to  stop  him  none  dare  -— 
Till  a  yell  from  the  top  told  a  "  White  Man  was  there  I " 

A  White  Man  was  there ! 

We  prayed  he  might  spare 

Those  misguided  heathens 

The  few  clothes  they  wear. 

They  fled,  and  he  followed,  but  no  matter  where  ; 

They  fled  to  escape  him,  —  the  "  White  Man  was  there,"  — 

Till  we  missed  first  his  voice  on  the  pine-wooded  slope, 

And  we  knew  for  the  heathen  henceforth  was  no  hope ; 

And  the  yells  they  grew  fainter,  when  Petersen  said, 

"  It  simply  was  human  to  bury  his  dead." 

And  then,  with  slow  tread, 

We  crept  up,  in  dread, 

But  found  nary  mortal  there, 

Living  or  dead. 

But  there  was  his  trail,  and  the  way  that  they  came, 

And  yonder,  no  doubt,  he  was  bagging  his  game. 

When    Jones   drops    his    pickaxe,    and    Thompson   says 

"  Shoo !  " 

And  both  of  ?em  points  to  a  cage  of  bamboo 
Hanging  down  from  a  tree,  with  a  label  that  swung 
Conspicuous,  with  letters  in  some  foreign  tongue, 
Which,  when  freely  translated,  the  same  did  appear 
Was  the  Chinese  for  saying,  "  A  White  Man  is  here  ! " 

And  as  we  drew  near, 

In  anger  and  fear, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  Johnson 

Looked  down  with  a  leer  ! 

In  his  mouth  was  an  opium  pipe  —  which  was  why 
He  leered  at  us  so  with  a  drunken-like  eye ! 


THE   LATEST  CHINESE   OUTRAGE  145 

They  had  shaved  off  his  eyebrows,  and  tacked  on  a  cue, 
They  had  painted  his  face  of  a  coppery  hue, 
And  rigged  him  all  up  in  a  heathenish  suit, 
Then  softly  departed,  each  man  with  his  "  loot." 

Yes,  every  galoot. 

And  Ah  Sin,  to  boot, 

Had  left  him  there  hanging 

Like  ripening  fruit. 

At  a  mass  meeting  held  up  at  Murphy's  next  day 
There  were  seventeen  speakers  and  each  had  his  say ; 
There  were  twelve  resolutions  that  instantly  passed, 
And  each  resolution  was  worse  than  the  last ; 
There  were  fourteen  petitions,  which,  granting  the  same, 
Will  determine  what  Governor  Murphy's  shall  name ; 
And  the  man  from  our  district  that  goes  up  next  year 
Goes  up  on  one  issue  —  that  's  patent  and  clear  : 
"  Can  the  work  of  a  mean, 

Degraded,  unclean 

Believer  in  Buddha 

Be  held  as  a  lien  ?  " 


TBUTHFUL   JAMES   TO  THE  EDITOR 
(YREKA,  1873) 

WHICH  it  is  not  my  style 

To  produce  needless  pain 
By  statements  that  rile 

Or  that  go  'gin  the  grain, 

But  here's  Captain  Jack  still  a-livin',   and   Nye  has  no 
skelp  on  his  brain ! 

On  that  Caucasian  head 

There  is  no  crown  of  hair ; 
It  has  gone,  it  has  fled ! 

And  Echo  sez  "  Where  ?  " 

And  I  asks,  "  Is  this  Nation  a  White  Man's,  and  is  gener 
ally  things  on  the  square  ?  " 

She  was  known  in  the  camp 
As  "  Nye's  other  squaw/' 
And  folks  of  that  stamp 

Hez  no  rights  in  the  law, 

But  is  treacherous,  sinful,  and  slimy,  as  Nye  might  hev  well 
known  before. 

But  she  said  that  she  knew 

Where  the  Injins  was  hid, 
And  the  statement  was  true, 

For  it  seemed  that  she  did, 

Since  she  led  William  where  he  was  covered  by  seventeen 
Modocs,  and  —  slid  ! 


TRUTHFUL   JAMES   TO   THE   EDITOR  147 

Then  they  reached  for  his  hair ; 

But  Nye  sez,  "  By  the  law 
Of  nations,  forbear ! 

I  surrenders  —  no  more  : 

And  I  looks  to  be  treated,  —  you  hear  me  ?  —  as  a  prisoner, 
a  pris'ner  of  war !  " 

But  Captain  Jack  rose 

And  he  sez,  "  It 's  too  thin ! 
Such  statements  as  those 
It  's  too  late  to  begin. 

There's  a  Modoc  indictment  agin  you,   0  Paleface,  and 
you  're  goin'  in  ! 

"  You  stole  Schonchin's  squaw 

In  the  year  sixty -two  j 
It  was  in  sixty-four 

That  Long  Jack  you  went  through, 

And  you  burned  Nasty  Jim's  rancheria,  and  his  wives  and 
his  papooses  too. 

"  This  gun  in  my  hand 

Was  sold  me  by  you 
'Gainst  the  law  of  the  land, 

And  I  grieves  it  is  true  !  " 

And  he  buried  his  face  in  his  blanket  and  wept  as  he  hid  it 
from  view. 

"  But  you  're  tried  and  condemned, 

And  skelping  's  your  doom," 
And  he  paused  and  he  hemmed  — 

But  why  this  resume  ? 

He  was  skelped  'gainst  the  custom  of  nations,  and  cut  off 
like  a  rose  in  its  bloom. 


U8  IN  DIALECT 

So  I  asks  without  guile, 

And  I  trusts  not  in  vain, 
If  this  is  the  style 

That  is  going  to  obtain  — 

If  here  *s  Captain  Jack  still  a-livin',  and  Nye  with  no  skelp 
on  his  brain  ? 


AN   IDYL   OF  THE   KOAD 

(SIERRAS,  1876) 
DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

First  Tourist  "  Yuba  Bill,  Driver 

Second  Tourist  A  Stranger 

FIRST    TOURIST 

LOOK  how  the  upland  plunges  into  cover, 

Green  where  the  pines  fade  sullenly  away. 
Wonderful  those  olive  depths  !  and  wonderful,  moreover- 

SECOND    TOURIST 

The  red  dust  that  rises  in  a  suffocating  way. 

FIRST    TOURIST 

Small  is  the  soul  that  cannot  soar  ahove  it, 

Cannot  hut  cling  to  its  ever-kindred  clay : 
Better  be  yon  bird,  that  seems  to  breathe  and  love  it  — 

SECOND    TOURIST 

Doubtless  a  hawk  or  some  other  bird  of  prey. 
Were  we,  like  him,  as  sure  of  a  dinner 

That  on  our  stomachs  would  comfortably  stay; 
Or  were  the  fried  ham  a  shade  or  two  just  thinner, 

That  must  confront  us  at  closing  of  the  day : 
Then  might  you  sing  like  Theocritus  or  Virgil, 

Then  might  we  each  make  a  metrical  essay ; 
But  verse  just  now  —  I  must  protest  and  urge  —  ill 

Fits  a  digestion  by  travel  led  astray. 


150  IN   DIALECT 

CHORU8    OF    PASSENGERS 

Speed,  Yuba  Bill !  oh,  speed  us  to  our  dinner ! 
Speed  to  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away. 

SECOND    TOURIST 

William  of  Yuba,  0  Son  of  Nimshi,  hearken ! 

Check  thy  profanity,  but  not  thy  chariot's  play. 
Tell  us,  0  William,  before  the  shadows  darken, 

Where,  and,  oh  !  how  we  shall  dine  ?     0  William,  say ! 

YUBA    BILL 

It  ain't  my  fault,  nor  the  Kumpeney's,  I  reckon, 

Ye  can't  get  ez  square  meal  ez  any  on  the  Bay, 
Up  at  yon  place,  whar  the  senset  'pears  to  beckon  — 

Ez  thet  sharp  allows  in  his  airy  sort  o'  way. 
Thar  woz  a  place  wor  yer  hash  ye  might  hev  wrestled, 

Kept  by  a  woman  ez  chipper  ez  a  jay  — 
Warm  in  her  breast  all  the  morning  sunshine  nestled  5 

Red  on  her  cheeks  all  the  evening's  sunshine  lay. 

SECOND    TOURIST 

Praise  is  but  breath,  0  chariot  compeller  ! 
Yet  of  that  hash  we  would  bid  you  farther  say. 

YUBA    BILL 

Thar  woz  a  snipe —  like  you,  a  fancy  tourist  — 

Kem  to  that  ranch  ez  if  to  make  a  stay, 
Ran  off  the  gal,  and  ruined  jist  the  purist 

Critter  that  lived  — 

STRANGER  (quietly) 

You  're  a  liar,  driver ! 

YUBA  BILL  (reaching  for  his  revolver). 

Eh! 
Here  take  my  lines,  somebody  — 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   ROAD  151 

CHORUS    OF    PASSENGERS 

Hush,  boys  !  listen ! 
Inside  there 's  a  lady  !     Remember  !     No  affray ! 

YUBA    BILL 

Ef  that  man  lives,  the  fault  ain't  mine  or  his'n. 

STRANGER 

Wait  for  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away, 

Then  —  as  you  will !     But,  meantime,  friends,  believe 

me, 
Nowhere  on  earth  lives  a  purer  woman ;  nay, 

If  my  perceptions  do  surely  not  deceive  me, 
She  is  the  lady  we  have  inside  to-day. 

As  for  the  man  —  you  see  that  blackened  pine  tree, 
Up  which  the  green  vine  creeps  heavenward  away  ! 

He  was  that  scarred  trunk,  and  she  the  vine  that  sweetly 
Clothed  him  with  life  again,  and  lifted  — 

SECOND    TOURIST 

Yes  ;  but  pray 
How  know  you  this  ? 

STRANGER 

She 's  my  wife. 

YUBA    BILL 

The  h — 11  you  say  I 


THOMPSON   OF   ANGELS 

IT  is  the  story  of  Thompson  —  of  Thompson,  the  hero  of 
Angels. 

Frequently  drunk  was  Thompson,  but  always  polite  to  the 
stranger ; 

Light  and  free  was  the  touch  of  Thompson  upon  his  re 
volver  ; 

Great  the  mortality  incident  on  that  lightness  and  freedom. 

Yet  not  happy  or  gay  was  Thompson,  the  hero  of  Angels ; 
Often  spoke  to  himself  in  accents  of  anguish  and  sorrow, 
"Why  do  I  make  the  graves  of  the  frivolous  youth  who 

in  folly 
Thoughtlessly  pass  my  revolver,  forgetting  its  lightness  and 

freedom  ? 

"  Why  in  my  daily  walks  does  the  surgeon  drop  his  left 

eyelid, 
The    undertaker    smile,    and    the   sculptor   of    gravestone 

marbles 
Lean  on  his  chisel  and  gaze  ?     I  care  not  o'er  much  for 

attention ; 
Simple  am  I  in  my  ways,  save  but  for  this  lightness  and 

freedom.". 

So  spake  that  pensive  man  —  this  Thompson,  the  hero  of 

Angels, 
Bitterly  smiled  to  himself,  as  he  strode  through  the  chap' 

paral  musing. 


THOMPSON   OF  ANGELS  153 

"  Why,  oh,  why  ?  "  echoed  the  pines  in  the  dark  olive  depth 

far  resounding. 
"  Why,  indeed  ?  "  whispered  the  sage  brush  that  bent  'neath 

his  feet  non-elastic. 

Pleasant  indeed  was  that  morn  that  dawned  o'er  the  bar 
room  at  Angels, 

Where  in  their  manhood's  prime  was  gathered  the  pride  of 
the  hamlet. 

Six  "  took  sugar  in  theirs,"  and  nine  to  the  barkeeper  lightly 

Smiled  as  they  said,  "  Well,  Jim,  you  can  give  us  our  regu 
lar  fusil." 

Suddenly  as  the  gray  hawk  swoops  down  on  the  barnyard, 

alighting 
Where,  pensively  picking  their  corn,  the  favorite  pullets  are 

gathered, 
So  in  that  festive  bar-room  dropped  Thompson,  the  hero  of 

Angels, 
Grasping  his  weapon  dread  with  his  pristine  lightness  and 

freedom. 

Never  a  word  he  spoke ;  divesting  himself  of  his  garments, 
Danced  the  war-dance  of  the  playful  yet  truculent  Modoc, 
tittered   a  single  whoop,  and  then,  in  the  accents  of  chal 
lenge, 

Spake  :  "  Oh,  behold  in  me  a  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the 
mountain." 

Then  rose  a  pallid  man  —  a  man  sick  with  fever  and  ague  ; 

Small  was  he,  and  his  step  was  tremulous,  weak,  and  un 
certain  ; 

Slowly  a  Derringer  drew,  and  covered  the  person  of  Thomp 
son  ; 

Said  in  his  feeblest  pipe,  "  I  'm  a  Bald-headed  Snipe  of 
the  Valley." 


154  IN   DIALECT 

As  on  its  native  plains  the  kangaroo,  startled  by  hunters, 
Leaps  with   successive  bounds,   and  hurries  away  to    the 

thickets, 
So  leaped  the  Crested  Hawk,  and  quietly  hopping  behind 

him 
Ran,  and  occasionally  shot,  that  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 

Valley. 

Vain  at  the  festive  bar  still  lingered  the  people  of  Angels, 
Hearing  afar  in  the  woods  the  petulant  pop  of  the  pistol ; 
Never  again  returned  the  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the  moun 
tains, 
Never  again  was  seen  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the  Valley. 

Yet  in  the  hamlet  of  Angels,  when  truculent  speeches  are 

uttered,  .   , 

When  bloodshed  and  life  alone  will  atone  for  some  trifling 

misstatement, 
Maidens   and  men   in  their  prime   recall  the  last  hero  of 

Angels, 
Think  of  and  vainly  regret  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 

Valley  I 


THF   HAWK'S  NEST 
(SIERRAS) 

WE  checked  our  pace,  the  red  road  sharply  rounding ; 

We  heard  the  troubled  flow 
Of  the  dark  olive  depths  of  pines  resounding 

A  thousand  feet  below. 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  canon  lifted, 

The  gray  hawk  breathless  hung, 
Or  on  the  hill  a  winged  shadow  drifted 

Where  furze  and  thorn-bush  clung ; 

Or  where  half-way  the  mountain  side  was  furrowed 

With  many  a  seam  and  scar  ; 
Or  some  abandoned  tunnel  dimly  burrowed,  — 

A  mole-hill  seen  so  far. 

We  looked  in  silence  down  across  the  distant 

Unfathomable  reach : 
A  silence  broken  by  the  guide's  consistent 

And  realistic  speech. 

"  Walker  of  Murphy's  blew  a  hole  through  Peters 

For  telling  him  he  lied  ; 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos 
Across  the  Long  Divide. 

"  We  ran  him  out  of  Strong's,  and  up  through  Eden, 
And  'cross  the  ford  below, 


156  IN  DIALECT 

And  up  this  canon  (Peters'  brother  leading, 
And  me  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

tt  He  fou't  us  game  :  somehow  I  disremember 

Jest  how  the  thing  kem  round  ; 
Some  say  't  was  wadding,  some  a  scattered  ember 
From  fires  on  the  ground. 

M  But  in  one  minute  all  the  hill  below  him 

Was  just  one  sheet  of  flame  ; 

Guardin'  the  crest,  Sam  Clark  and  I  called  to  him, 
And,  —  well,  the  dog  was  game  ! 

u  He  made  no  sign :  the  fires  of  hell  were  round  him, 

The  pit  of  hell  below. 

We  sat  and  waited,  but  we  never  found  him ; 
And  then  we  turned  to  go. 

"  And  then  —  you  see  that  rock  that  's  grown  so  bristlj 

With  chapparal  and  tan  — 
Suthin  crep'  out :  it  might  hev  been  a  grizzly. 
It  might  hev  been  a  man ; 

"  Suthin  that  howled,  and  gnashed  its  teeth,  and  shouted 

In  smoke  and  dust  and  flame ; 
Suthin  that  sprang  into  the  depths  about  it, 
Grizzly  or  man,  —  but  game  ! 

"  That  's  all !     Well,  yes,  it  does  look  rather  risky, 

And  kinder  makes  one  queer 
And  dizzy  looking  down.     A  drop  of  whiskey 
Ain't  a  bad  thing  right  here  !  " 


HER   LETTER 

I  'M  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  rohe  even  you  would  admire,  — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 
I  'm  he-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue : 
In  short,  sir,  "  the  belle  of  the  season " 

Is  wasting  an  hour  upon  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I  've  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  —  for  me  yet. 
They  say  he  '11  be  rich,  —  when  he  grows  up,. 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed  ; 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

"  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?  " 

"  And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  ?  " 
€t  And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ?  " 
"  And  is  n't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that  ?  " 
"  And  are  n't  they  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  ?  " 

Well,  yes,  —  if  you  saw  us  out  driving 
Each  day  in  the  Park,  four-in-hand, 


158  IN   DIALECT 

If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 
To  look  supernaturally  grand,  — • 

If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 
By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that,  — 

You  'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 
And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier,— 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year,"  — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Chambery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk,  — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "  Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "  The  Fork ; 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl ; 
Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle, 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis  ; 
And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 

With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 

On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go ; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 

From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow ; 
Of  that  ride,  —  that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 

Of  —  the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 
Ah  !  Joe,  then  I  was  n't  an  heiress 

To  "the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State." 

Well,  well,  it 's  all  past ;  yet  it 's  funny 
To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 


HER   LETTER  159 

Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 

Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 
And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 

Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 
The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I  'm  writing  I 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low), 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I  'm  spooning  on  Joseph,  —  heigh-ho ! 
And  I  'm  to  be  "  finished  "  by  travel,  — 

Whatever 's  the  meaning  of  that. 
Oh,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good-night !  —  here  's  the  end  of  my  paper ; 

Good-night !  —  if  the  longitude  please,  — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Your  sun  }s  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  have  n't  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart 's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 

And  you  've  struck  it,  —  on  Poverty  Flat. 


HIS   ANSWEB   TO  "HEK   LETTEK" 
(REPORTED  BY  TRUTHFUL  JAMES) 

BEING  asked  by  an  intimate  party,  — 

Which  the  same  I  would  term  as  a  friend,  — 
Though  his  health  it  were  vain  to  call  hearty, 

Since  the  mind  to  deceit  it  might  lend ; 
For  his  arm  it  was  broken  quite  recent, 

And  there 's  something  gone  wrong  with  his  lung, 
Which  is  why  it  is  proper  and  decent 

I  should  write  what  he  runs  off  his  tongue. 

First,  he  says,  Miss,  he  's  read  through  your  letter 

To  the  end,  —  and  "  the  end  came  too  soon  ;  " 
That  a  "  slight  illness  kept  him  your  debtor," 

(Which  for  weeks  he  was  wild  as  a  loon) ; 
That  "  his  spirits  are  buoyant  as  yours  is  ; " 

That  with  you,  Miss,  he  "  challenges  Fate," 
(Which  the  language  that  invalid  uses 

At  times  it  were  vain  to  relate). 

And  he  says  "  that  the  mountains  are  fairer 

For  once  being  held  in  your  thought ; " 
That  each  rock  "  holds  a  wealth  that  is  rarer 

Than  ever  by  gold-seeker  sought." 
(Which  are  words  he  would  put  in  these  pages, 

By  a  party  not  given  to  guile  ; 
Though  the  claim  not,  at  date,  paying  wages, 

Might  produce  in  the  sinful  a  smile.) 


HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER"  161 

He  remembers  the  ball  at  the  Ferry, 

And  the  ride,  and  the  gate,  and  the  vow, 
And  the  rose  that  you  gave  him,  —  that  very 

Same  rose  he  is  "  treasuring  now." 
(Which  his  blanket  he 's  kicked  on  his  trunk,  Miss, 

And  insists  on  his  legs  being  free ; 
And  his  language  to  me  from  his  bunk,  Miss, 

Is  frequent  and  painful  and  free.) 

He  hopes  you  are  wearing  no  willows, 

But  are  happy  and  gay  all  the  while  ; 
That  he  knows  —  (which  this  dodging  of  pillows 

Imparts  but  small  ease  to  the  style, 
And  the  same  you  will  pardon)  —  he  knows,  Miss, 

That,  though  parted  by  many  a  mile, 
Yet,  were  Tie  lying  under  the  snows,  Miss, 

They  'd  me!«  into  tears  at  your  smile." 

And  "  you  '11  still  think  of  him  in  your  pleasures, 

In  your  brief  twilight  dreams  of  the  past ; 
In  this  green  laurel  spray  that  he  treasures,  — 

It  was  plucked  where  your  parting  was  last  j 
In  this  specimen,  —  but  a  small  trifle,  — 

It  will  do  for  a  pin  for  your  shawl." 
(Which,  the  truth  not  to  wickedly  stifle, 

Was  his  last  week's  "  clean  up,"  — and  his  all.) 

He 's  asleep,  which  the  same  might  seem  strange,  Miss, 

Were  it  not  that  I  scorn  to  deny 
That  I  raised  his  last  dose,  for  a  change,  Miss, 

In  view  that  his  fever  was  high ; 
But  he  lies  there  quite  peaceful  and  pensive. 

And  now,  my  respects,  Miss,  to  you ; 
Which  my  language,  although  comprehensive, 

Might  seem  to  be  freedom,  is  true. 


162  IN   DIALECT 

For  I  have  a  small  favor  to  ask  you, 

As  concerns  a  bull-pup,  and  the  same,  — 
If  the  duty  would  not  overtask  you,  — 

You  would  please  to  procure  for  me,  game  ; 
And  send  per  express  to  the  Flat,  Miss,  — 

For  they  say  York  is  famed  for  the  breed, 
Which,  though  words  of  deceit  may  be  that,  Miss, 

I  '11  trust  to  your  taste,  Miss,  indeed. 

P.S.  — Which  this  same  interfering 

Into  other  folks7  way  I  despise ; 
Yet  if  it  so  be  I  was  hearing 

That  it 's  just  empty  pockets  as  lies 
Betwixt  you  and  Joseph,  it  follers 

That,  having  no  family  claims, 
Here  ?s  my  pile,  which  it 's  six  hundred  dollars, 

As  is  yours,  with  respects, 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


"THE  EETUBN  OF   BELISARIUS" 

(MUD  FLAT,  i860) 

So  you  're  back  from  your  travels,  old  fellow, 

And  you  left  but  a  twelvemonth  ago ; 
You  've  hobnobbed  with  Louis  Napoleon, 

Eugenie,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  toe. 
By  Jove,  it  is  perfectly  stunning, 

Astounding,  —  and  all  that,  you  know ; 
Yes,  things  are  about  as  you  left  them 

In  Mud  Flat  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

The  boys  !  —  they  're  all  right,  —  Oh  !  Dick  Ashley 

He  's  buried  somewhere  in  the  snow  ; 
He  was  lost  on  the  Summit  last  winter, 

And  Bob  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 
You  know  that  he  's  got  the  consumption  ? 

You  did  n't !     Well,  come,  that 's  a  go ; 
I  certainly  wrote  you  at  Baden,  — 

Dear  me  !   that  was  six  months  ago. 

I  got  all  your  outlandish  letters, 

All  stamped  by  some  foreign  P.  0. 
I  handed  myself  to  Miss  Mary 

That  sketch  of  a  famous  chateau. 
Tom  Saunders  is  living  at  'Frisco,  — 

They  say  that  he  cuts  quite  a  show. 
You  did  n't  meet  Euchre-deck  Billy 

Anywhere  on  your  road  to  Cairo  ? 


164  IN  DIALECT 

So  you  thought  of  the  rusty  old  cabin, 

The  pines,  and  the  valley  below, 
And  heard  the  North  Fork  of  the  Yuba 

As  you  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Po  ? 
?T  was  just  like  your  romance,  old  fellow ; 

But  now  there  is  standing  a  row 
Of  stores  on  the  site  of  the  cabin 

That  you  lived  in  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

But  it 's  jolly  to  see  you,  old  fellow,  — 

To  think  it 's  a  twelvemonth  ago ! 
And  you  have  seen  Louis  Napoleon, 

And  look  like  a  Johnny  Crapaud. 
Come  in.      You  will  surely  see  Mary,  — 

You  know  we  are  married.     What,  no  ?  • 
Oh,  ay  !  I  forgot  there  was  something 

Between  you  a  twelvemonth  ago. 


FUKTHER  LANGUAGE  FKOM  TRUTHFUL 
JAMES 

(NYE'S  FORD,  STANISLAUS,  1870) 

Do  I  sleep  ?  do  I  dream  ? 
Do  I  wonder  and  doubt  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 
Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 

Which  expressions  are  strong  ; 

Yet  would  feebly  imply 

Some  account  of  a  wrong  — 

Not  to  call  it  a  lie  — 

As  was  worked  off  on  William,  my  pardner, 

And  the  same  being  W.  Nye. 

He  came  down  to  the  Ford 

On  the  very  same  day 

Of  that  lottery  d  rawed 

By  those  sharps  at  the  Bay ; 

And  he  says  to  me,  "  Truthful,  how  goes  it  ?  w 

I  replied,  "It  is  far,  far  from  gay  ; 

6f  For  the  camp  has  gone  wild 

On  this  lottery  game, 

And  has  even  beguiled 
'Injin  Dick  '  by  the  same." 

Then  said  Nye  to  me,  "  Injins  is  pizen: 

But  what  is  his  number,  eh,  James  ?  " 


166  IN   DIALECT 

I  replied,  "  7,  2, 

9,  8,  4,  is  his  hand ; " 

When  he  started,  and  drew 

Out  a  list,  which  he  scanned ; 

Then  he  softly  went  for  his  revolver 

With  language  I  cannot  command. 

Then  I  said,  "  William  Nye  !  " 

But  he  turned  upon  me, 

And  the  look  in  his  eye 

Was  quite  painful  to  see ; 

And  he  says,  "  You  mistake  ;  this  poor  Injin 

I  protects  from  such  sharps  as  you  be !  " 

I  was  shocked  and  withdrew ; 

But  I  grieve  to  relate, 

When  he  next  met  my  view 

Injin  Dick  was  his  mate ; 

And  the  two  around  town  was  a-lying 

In  a  frightfully  dissolute  state. 

Which  the  war  dance  they  had 
Hound  a  tree  at  the  Bend 
Was  a  sight  that  was  sad ; 
And  it  seemed  that  the  end 
Would  not  justify  the  proceedings, 
As  I  quiet  remarked  to  a  friend. 

For  that  Injin  he  fled 

The  next  day  to  his  band ; 

And  we  found  William  spread 

Very  loose  on  the  strand, 

With  a  peaceful-like  smile  on  his  features, 

And  a  dollar  greenback  in  his  hand  j 


FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES   167 

Which  the  same,  when  rolled  out, 
We  observed,  with  surprise, 
Was  what  he,  no  doubt, 
Thought  the  number  and  prize  — 
Them  figures  in  red  in  the  corner, 
Which  the  number  of  notes  specifies,, 

Was  it  guile,  or  a  dream  ? 

Is  it  Nye  that  I  doubt  ? 

Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 

Or  is  visions  about  ? 

Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 

Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 


AFTER   THE   ACCIDENT 
(MOUTH  OF  THE  SHAFT) 

WHAT  I  want  is  my  husband,  sir, 
And  if  you  're  a  man,  sir, 

You  '11  give  me  an  answer,  — 
Where  is  my  Joe  ? 

Penrhyn,  sir,  Joe,  — 

Caernarvonshire. 
Six  months  ago 

Since  we  came  here  — 
Eh  ?  —  Ah,  you  know  ! 

Well,  I  am  quiet 

And  still, 
But  I  must  stand  here, 

And  will ! 
Please,  I  '11  be  strong, 

If  you  '11  just  let  me  wait 

Inside  o'  that  gate 
Till  the  news  comes  along. 

"  Negligence  !  "  — 
That  was  the  cause  !  — 

Butchery ! 
Are  there  no  laws,  — 

Laws  to  protect  such  as  we  ? 

Well,  then ! 

I  won't  raise  my  voice. 


AFTER   THE   ACCIDENT  169 

There,  men  ! 

I  won't  make  no  noise, 
Only  you  just  let  me  be. 

Four,  only  four  —  did  he  say  — 
Saved  !  and  the  other  ones  ?  —  Eh  ? 

Why  do  they  call  ? 

Why  are  they  all 
Looking  and  coming  this  way  ? 

What 's  that  ?  —  a  message  ? 

I  '11  take  it. 
I  know  his  wife,  sir, 

I  '11  break  it. 

"  Foreman ! " 

Ay,  ay  ! 

"  Out  by  and  by,  — 

Just  saved  his  life. 

Say  to  his  wife 

Soon  he  '11  be  free." 
Will  I  ?  —  God  bless  you ! 

It's  me! 


THE   GHOST   THAT  JIM  SAW 

WHY,  as  to  that,  said  the  engineer, 
Ghosts  ain't  things  we  are  apt  to  fear ; 
Spirits  don't  fool  with  levers  much, 
And  throttle-valves  don't  take  to  such ; 

And  as  for  Jim, 

What  happened  to  him 
Was  one  half  fact,  and  t'  other  half  whim  ! 

Kunning  one  night  on  the  line,  he  saw 
A  house  —  as  plain  as  the  moral  law  — 
Just  by  the  moonlit  bank,  and  thence 
Came  a  drunken  man  with  no  more  sense 

Than  to  drop  on  the  rail 

Flat  as  a  flail, 
As  Jim  drove  by  with  the  midnight  mail. 

Down  went  the  patents  —  steam  reversed. 
Too  late  !  for  there  came  a  ."  thud."     Jim  cursed 
As  the  fireman,  there  in  the  cab  with  him, 
Kinder  stared  in  the  face  of  Jim, 

And  says,  "What  now  ?  " 

Says  Jim,  "  What  now  ! 
I  've  just  run  over  a  man,  —  that 's  how  !  " 

The  fireman  stared  at  Jim.     They  ran 

Back,  but  they  never  found  house  nor  man,  — 

Nary  a  shadow  within  a  mile. 

Jim  turned  pale,  but  he  tried  to  smile, 


THE   GHOST   THAT   JIM   SAW  171 

Then  on  he  tore 
Ten  mile  or  more, 
In  quicker  time  than  he  'd  made  afore. 

Would  you  believe  it !  the  very  next  night 
Up  rose  that  house  in  the  moonlight  white, 
Out  comes  the  chap  and  drops  as  before, 
Down  goes  the  brake  and  the  rest  encore  ; 

And  so,  in  fact, 

Each  night  that  act 
Occurred,  till  folks  swore  Jim  was  cracked. 

Humph  !  let  me  see  ;  it  'a  a  year  now,  'most, 
That  I  met  Jim,  East,  and  says,  "  How >s  your  ghost  ?  n 
"Gone,"  says  Jim  ;  "  and  more,  it 's  plain 
That  ghost  don't  trouble  me  again. 

I  thought  I  shook 

That  ghost  when  I  took 
A  place  on  an  Eastern  line,  —  but  look ! 

"  What  should  I  meet,  the  first  trip  out, 
But  the  very  house  we  talked  about, 
And  the  selfsame  man  !     '  Well/  says  I,  '  I  guess 
It 's  time  to  stop  this  'yer  foolishness.' 
So  I  crammed  on  steam, 
When  there  came  a  scream 
From  my  fireman,  that  jest  broke  my  dream  : 

"  <  You '  ve  killed  somebody  ! '     Says  I,  <  Not  much ! 
1 've  been  thar  often,  and  thar  ain't  no  such, 
And  now  I  '11  prove  it ! '     Back  we  ran, 
And  —  darn  my  skin !  —  but  thar  was  a  man 

On  the  rail,  dead, 

Smashed  in  the  head  !  — 
Now  I  call  that  meanness  !  "     That 's  all  Jim  said. 


"  SEVENTY-NINE  " 

(MB.    INTERVIEWER    INTERVIEWED) 

KNOW  me  next  time  when  you  see  me,   won't  you,  old 

smarty  ? 

Oh,  I  mean  you,  old  figger-head,  — just  the  same  party ! 
Take  out  your  pensivil,  d — n  you  ;  sharpen  it,  do ! 
Any  complaints  to  make  ?    Lots  of  'em  —  one  of  'em 's  you. 

You !  who  are  you,  anyhow,  goin'  round  in  that  sneakin' 

way  ? 

Never  in  jail  before,  was  you,  old  blatherskite,  say  ? 
Look  at  it ;  don't  it  look  pooty  ?     Oh,  grin,  and  be  d — d 

to  you,  do ! 
But  if  I  had  you  this  side  o'  that  gratin,'  I  'd  just  make  it 

lively  for  you. 

How   did  I  get  in  here  ?     Well   what   'ud   you  give  to 

know? 

?T  was  n't  by  sneakin'  round  where  I  had  n't  no  call  to  go ; 
?T  was  n't  by  hangin'  round  a-spyin'  unfortnet  men. 
Grin !  but  I  '11  stop  your  jaw  if  ever  you  do  that  agen. 

Why  don't  you  say  suthin,  blast  you  ?     Speak  your  mind 

if  you  dare. 

Ain't  I  a  bad  lot,  sonny  ?     Say  it,  and  call  it  square. 
Hain't  got  no  tongue,  hey,  hev  ye  ?     Oh,  guard !    here  ?s 

a  little  swell 
A  cussin'  and  swearin'  and  yellin',  and  bribin'  me  not  to 

tell. 


SEVENTY-NINE  173 

There  !  I  thought  that  'ud  fetch  ye !  And  you  want  to  know 
my  name  ? 

"  Seventy-nine  "  they  call  me,  but  that  is  their  little  game ; 

For  I  'm  werry  highly  connected,  as  a  gent,  sir,  can  under 
stand, 

And  my  family  hold  their  heads  up  with  the  very  furst  in 
the  land. 

For  't  was  all,  sir,  a  put-up  job  on  a  pore  young  man  like 

me ; 
And    the   jury  was    bribed    a    puppos,  and   at   furst  they 

could  n't  agree ; 
And  I  sed  to  the  judge,  sez  I,  —  Oh,  grin !  it 's  all  right, 

my  son  ! 
But  you  're  a  werry  lively  young  pup,  and  you  ain't  to  be 

played  upon  ! 

Wot 's    that    you    got  ?  —  tobacco  ?       I  'm    cussed  but    I 

thought  'twas  a  tract. 
Thank  ye  !     A  chap  t'  other  day  —  now,  lookee,  this  is  a 

fact  — 

Slings  me  a  tract  on  the  evils  o'  keepin'  bad  company, 
As  if  all  the  saints  was  howlin'  to  stay  here  along  o'  we. 

No,  I  hain't  no  complaints.     Stop,  yes ;  do  you  see  that 

chap,  — 

Him  standin'  over  there,  a-hidin'  his  eyes  in  his  cap  ? 
Well,  that  man's  stumick  is  weak,  and  he  can't  stand  the 

pris'n  fare  ; 
For  the  coffee   is  just  half  beans,  and  the  sugar  it  ain't 

nowhere. 

Perhaps  it 's  his  bringin'  up ;    but  he 's  sickenin'  day  by 

day, 
And  he  does  n't  take  no  food,  and  I  'm  seein'  him  waste 

away. 


174  IN  DIALECT 

And  it  is  n't  the  thing  to  see ;  for,  whatever  he  's  been  and 

done, 
Starvation  is  n't  the  plan  as  he 's  to  be  saved  upon. 

For  he  cannot  rough  it  like  me ;  and  he  has  n't  the  stamps, 

I  guess, 

To  buy  him  his  extry  grub  outside  o'  the  pris'n  mess. 
And  perhaps  if  a  gent  like  you,  with  whom  I  've  been  sorter 

free, 
Would  —  thank  you  !     But,  say  !    look  here !     Oh,  blast 

it !  don't  give  it  to  ME  ! 

Don't  you  give  it  to  me  ;  now,  don't  ye,  don't  ye,  don't ! 
You  think  it 's  a  put-up  job ;  so  I  '11  thank  ye,  sir,  if  you 

won't. 
But  hand  him  the  stamps  yourself  :  why,  he  is  n't  even  my 

pal; 
And,  if  it 's  a  comfort  to  you,  why,  I  don't  intend  that  he 

shall. 


THE   STAGE-DEIVEE'S   STORY 

IT  was  the  stage-driver's  story,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to 

the  wheelers, 

Quietly  flecking  his  whip,  and  turning  his  quid  of  tobacco ; 
While  on  the  dusty  road,  and  blent  with  the  rays  of  the 

moonlight, 
We  saw  the  long  curl  of  his  lash  and  the  juice  of  tobacco 

descending. 

"  Danger !     Sir,  I  believe  you,  —  indeed,   I  may  say,  on 

that  subject, 
You  your  existence  might  put  to  the  hazard  and  turn  of  a 

wager. 
I  have  seen  danger  ?    Oh,  no  !    not  me,  sir,  indeed,  I  assure 

you  : 
'T  was  only  the  man  with  the  dog  that  is  sitting  alone  in 

yon  wagon. 

"  It  was  the  Geiger  Grade,  a  mile  and  a  half   from  the 

summit : 
Black  as  your  hat  was  the  night,  and  never  a  star  in  the 

heavens. 
Thundering  down  the  grade,  the  gravel  and  stones  we  sent 

flying 
Over  the  precipice  side,  —  a  thousand  feet  plumb  to  the 

bottom. 

"  Half-way  down  the  grade  I  felt,  sir,  a  thrilling  and  creak 
ing, 

Then  a  lurch  to  one  side,  as  we  hung  on  the  bank  of  the 
canon ; 


176  IN  DIALECT 

Then,  looking  up  the  road,  I  saw,  in  the  distance  behind 

me, 
The  off  hind  wheel  of  the  coach,  just  loosed  from  its  axle, 

and  following. 

"  One  glance  alone  I  gave,  th3n  gathered  together  my  rib 
bons, 

Shouted,  and  flung  them,  outspread,  on  the  straining  necks 
of  my  cattle  ; 

Screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  lashed  the  air  in  my 
frenzy, 

While  down  the  Geiger  Grade,  on  three  wheels,  the  vehicle 
thundered. 

"  Speed  was  our  only  chance,  when  again  came  the  ominous 
rattle  : 

Crack,  and  another  wheel  slipped  away,  and  was  lost  in  the 
darkness. 

Two  only  now  were  left ;  yet  such  was  our  fearful  momen 
tum, 

Upright,  erect,  and  sustained  on  two  wheels,  the  vehicle 
thundered. 

"  As  some  huge  boulder,  unloosed  from  its  rocky  shelf  on 

the  mountain, 
Drives  before  it  the  hare  and  the  timorous  squirrel,  far 

leaping, 
So  down  the  Geiger  Grade  rushed  the  Pioneer  coach,  and 

before  it 
Leaped  the  wild  horses,  and  shrieked  in  advance  of  the 

danger  impending. 

"  But  to  be  brief  in  my  tale.     Again,  ere  we  came  to  the 

level, 
Slipped  from  its  axle  a  wheel ;  so  that,  to  be  plain  in  my 

statement, 


THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY  177 

A  matter  of  twelve  hundred  yards  or  more,  as  the  distance 

may  be, 
We  traveled  upon   one  wheel,  until  we  drove  up  to  the 

station. 

"  Then,  sir,  we  sank  in  a  heap ;  but,  picking  myself  from 

the  ruins, 
I  heard  a  noise  up  the  grade  ;  and  looking,  I  saw  in  the 

distance 
The  three  wheels  following  still,  like  moons  on  the  horizon 

whirling, 
Till,  circling,  they  gracefully  sank  on  the  road  at  the  side 

of  the  station. 

"  This  is  my  story,  sir ;  a  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you. 
Much  more,  perchance,  might  be  said  —  but  I  hold  him  of 

all  men  most  lightly 
Who  swerves  from  the  truth  in  his  tale.    No,  thank  you  — 

Well,  since  you  are  pressing, 
Perhaps  I  don't  care  if  I  do :  you  may  give  me  the  same, 

Jim,  —  no  sugar." 


A  QUESTION   OF   PKIVILEGE 

REPORTED    BY    TRUTHFUL    JAMES 

IT  was  Andrew  Jackson  Sutter  who,  despising  Mr.  Cutter 

for  remarks  he  heard  him  utter  in  debate  upon  the 

floor, 
Swung  him  up  into  the  skylight,  in  the  peaceful,  pensive 

twilight,  and  then  keerlessly  proceeded,  makin'  no 

account  what  we  did  — 
To  wipe  up  with  his  person  casual  dust  upon  the  floor. 

Now  a  square  fight  never  frets  me,  nor  unpleasantness  up 
sets  me,  but  the  simple  thing  that  gets  me  —  now 
the  job  is  done  and  gone, 

And  we  've  come  home  free  and  merry  from  the  peaceful 
cemetery,  leavin*  Cutter  there  with  Sutter  —  that 
mebbee  just  a  stutter 

On  the  part  of  Mr.  Cutter  caused  the  loss  we  deeply  mourn. 

Some  bashful  hesitation,  just  like  spellin'  punctooation  — 
might  have  worked  an  aggravation  on  to  Slitter's 
mournful  mind, 

For  the  witnesses  all  vary  ez  to  wot  was  said  and  nary  a 
galoot  will  toot  his  horn  except  the  way  he  is  in 
clined. 

But  they  all  allow  that  Sutter  had  begun  a  kind  of  mutter, 
when  uprose  Mr.  Cutter  with  a  sickening  kind  of 


And  proceeded  then  to  wade  in  to  the  subject  then  pre- 
vadin' :  "  Is  Profanity  degradin'  ?  "  in  words  like 
unto  these : 


A  QUESTION   OF  PRIVILEGE  179 

"  Onlike  the  previous  speaker,  Mr.  Sutter  of  Yreka,  he  was 
but    a    humble    seeker  —  and    not    like    him  —  a 


cuss  " 


It  was  here  that  Mr.  Sutter  softly  reached  for  Mr.  Cutter, 
when  the  latter  with  a  stutter  said :  "  ac-customed 
to  discuss." 

Then  Sutter  he  rose  grimly,  and  sorter  smilin'  dimly  bowed 
onto  the  Chairman  primly  —  (just  like  Cutter  ez 
could  be !) 

Drawled  "  he  guessed  he  must  fall  —  back  —  as  —  Mr. 
Cutter  owned  the  pack — as  —  he  just  had  played 
the  —  Jack  — as  —  "  (here  Cutter's  gun  went  crack  ! 
as  Mr.  Sutter  gasped  and  ended)  "  every  man  can 
see ! " 

But  William  Henry  Pryor  —  just  in  range  of  Sutter' s  fire 
—  here  evinced  a  wild  desire  to  do  somebody  harm, 

And  in  the  general  scrimmage  no  one  thought  if  Sutter's 
"image"  was  a  misplaced  punctooation  —  like  the 
hole  in  Pry  or' s  arm. 

For  we  all  waltzed  in  together,  never  carin'  to  ask  whether 
it  was  Sutter  or  was  Cutter  we  woz  tryin'  to  abate. 

But  we  could  n't  help  perceivin',  when  we  took  to  inkstand 
heavin',  that  the  process  was  relievin'  to  the  sharp 
ness  of  debate. 

So  we  've   come   home   free   and  merry  from  the   peaceful 

cemetery,  and  I  make  no  commentary  on  these  simple 

childish  games ; 
Things  is  various  and  human  —  and  the  man  ain't  born  of 

woman  who  is  free  to  intermeddle  with  his  pal'a 

intents  and  aims. 


THE   THOUGHT-READER   OF  ANGELS 

REPORTED    BY    TRUTHFUL    JAMES 

WE  hev  tumbled  ez  dust 

Or  ez  worms  of  the  yearth  ; 
Wot  we  looked  for  hez  bust ! 

We  are  objects  of  mirth ! 

They  have  played  us  —  old  Pards  of  the  river !  —  they  hev 
played  us  for  all  we  was  worth ! 

Was  it  euchre  or  draw 

Cut  us  off  in  our  bloom  ? 
Was  it  faro,  whose  law 

Is  uncertain  ez  doom  ? 

Or  an  innocent  "  Jack  pot  "  that  —  opened  —  was  to  us  ez 
the  jaws  of  the  tomb  ? 

It  was  nary  !     It  kem 

With  some  sharps  from  the  States, 
Ez  folks  sez,  "  All  things  kem 

To  the  fellers  ez  waits ;  " 

And  we  ?d  waited  six  months  for  that  suthin'  —  had  me  and 
Bill  Nye  —  in  such  straits  ! 

And  it  kem.     It  was  small ; 

It  was  dream-like  and  weak ; 
It  wore  store  clothes  —  that 's  all 

That  we  knew,  so  to  speak  ; 

But  it  called  itself  "  Billson,  Thought-Reader  "  —  which 
ain't  half  a  name  for  its  cheek  ! 


THE   THOUGHT-READER  OF  ANGELS  Ifcl 

He  could  read  wot  you  thought, 

And  he  knew  wot  you  did  ; 
He  could  find  things  untaught, 

No  matter  whar  hid  ; 

And  he  went  to  it,  blindfold  and  smiling,  being  led  by  the 
hand  like  a  kid  ! 

Then  I  glanced  at  Bill  Nye, 
And  I  sez,  without  pride, 
"  You  '11  excuse  us.     We  've  nigh 

On  to  nothin'  to  hide  ; 

But  if  some  gent  will  lend  us  a  twenty,  we  '11  hide  it  whar 
folks  shall  decide." 

It  was  Billson'  s  own  self 

Who  forked  over  the  gold, 
With  a  smile.     "  Thar  's  the  pelf," 

He  remarked.      "  I  make  bold 

To  advance  it,  and  go  twenty  better  that  I  '11  find  it  with 
out  being  told." 


Then  I  passed  it  to 

Who  repassed  it  to  me. 
And  we  bandaged  each  eye 
Of  that  Billson  —  ez  we 

Softly  dropped  that   coin  in  his  coat  pocket,  ez  the  hull 
crowd  around  us  could  see. 

That  was  all.     He  'd  one  hand 

Locked  in  mine.     Then  he  groped. 
We  could  not  understand 

Why  that  minit  Nye  sloped, 

For  we  knew  we  'd  the  dead  thing  on  Billson  —  even  more 
than  we  dreamed  of  or  hoped. 


182  IN  DIALECT 

For  he  stood  thar  in  doubt 

With  his  hand  to  his  head ; 
Then  he  turned,  and  lit  out 

Through  the  door  where  Nye  fled, 

Draggin'  me  and  the  rest  of  us  arter,  while  we  larfed  till  we 
thought  we  was  dead, 

Till  he  overtook  Nye 

And  went  through  him.     Words  fail 
For  what  follers  !     Kin  I 
Paint  our  agonized  wail 

J3z  he   drew  from   Nye's    pocket    that  twenty  wot   we'd 
sworn  was  in  his  own  coat-tail ! 

And  it  was  !     But,  when  found, 

It  proved  bogus  and  brass ! 
And  the  question  goes  round 

How  the  thing  kem  to  pass  ? 

Or,  if  passed,  woz  it  passed  thar  by  William ;  and  I  listens, 
and  echoes  "  Alas ! 

"  For  the  days  when  the  skill 

Of  the  keerds  was  no  blind, 
When  no  effort  of  will 

Could  beat  four  of  a  kind, 

When  the  thing  wot  you  held  in  your  hand,  Pard,  was 
worth  more  than  the  thing  in  your  mind." 


THE   SPELLING  BEE   AT   ANGELS 
(REPORTED  BY  TRUTHFUL  JAMES) 

WALTZ  in,  waltz  in,  ye  little  kids,  and  gather  round  my 

knee, 
And  drop  them  books  and  first  pot-hooks,  and  hear  a  yarn 

from  me. 

I  kin  not  sling  a  fairy  tale  of  Jinnys  1  fierce  and  wild, 
For  I  hold  it  is  unchristian  to  deceive  a  simple  child ; 
But  as  from  school  yer  driftin'  by,  I  thowt  ye'd  like  to 

hear 
Of  a  "  Spelling  Bee  "  at  Angels  that  we  organized  last  year. 

It  warn't  made  up  of  gentle  kids,  of  pretty  kids,  like  you, 

But  gents  ez  hed  their  reg'lar  growth,  and  some  enough  for 
two. 

There  woz  Lanky  Jim  of  Sutter's  Fork  and  Bilson  of  La- 
grange, 

And  "  Pistol  Bob,"  who  wore  that  day  a  knife  by  way  of 
change. 

You  start,  you  little  kids,  you  think  these  are  not  pretty 
names, 

But  each  had  a  man  behind  it,  and  —  my  name  is  Truthful 
James. 

There  was  Poker  Dick   from  Whisky  Flat,  and  Smith  of 

Shooter's  Bend, 

And  Brown  of  Calaveras  —  which  I  want  no  better  friend ; 
Three-fingered  Jack  —  yes,   pretty  dears,  three  fingers  — 

you  have  five. 

1  Qy  Genii. 


184  IN   DIALECT 

Clapp  cut  off  two  —  it  's  singular,  too,  that  Clapp  ain't  now 

alive. 
'T  was  very  wrong   indeed,  my  dears,  and  Clapp  was  much 

to  blame ; 
Likewise  was  Jack,  in  after-years,  for  shootin'  of  that  same. 

The  nights  was  kinder  lengthenin'  out,  the  rains  had  jest 

begun, 
When  all  the  camp  came  up  to  Pete's  to  have  their  usual 

fun; 

But  we  all  sot  kinder  sad-like  around  the  bar-room  stove 
Till  Smith  got  up,  permiskiss-like,  and  this  remark  he  hove  : 
"  Thar 's  a  new  game  down  in  Frisco,  that  ez  far  ez  I  can 

see 
Beats  euchre,  poker,  and  van-toon,  they  calls  the  '  Spellin' 

Bee.' " 

Then   Brown  of   Calaveras  simply  hitched  his  chair  and 

spake, 
ft  Poker    is   good   enough    for  me,"  and  Lanky  Jim  sez, 

"  Shake ! " 
And  Bob  allowed  he  warn't  proud,  but  he  "  must  say  right 

thar 

That  the  man  who  tackled  euchre  hed  his  education  squar." 
This  brought  up  Lenny  Fairchild,  the  schoolmaster,  who 

said 
He  knew  the  game,  and  he  would  give  instructions  on  that 

head. 

"For    instance,    take    some  simple    word,"   sez   he,   "like 

1  separate  : ' 
Now  who  can  spell  it  ?  "     Dog  my  skin,  ef  thar  was  one  in 

eight. 
This  set  the  boys  all  wild  at  once.     The  chairs  was  put  in 

row, 


THE   SPELLING   BEE   AT  ANGELS  185 

And  at  the  head  was  Lanky  Jim,  and  at  the  foot  was  Joe, 
And  high  upon  the  bar  itself  the  schoolmaster  was  raised, 
And  the  bar-keep  put  his  glasses  down,  and  sat  and  silent 


The  first  word  out  was  "  parallel,"  and  seven  let  it  be, 
Till  Joe  waltzed  in  his  "  double  1 "  betwixt  the  "  a  "  and 


For  since  he  drilled  them  Mexicans  in  San  Jacinto's  fight 
Thar  warn't  no  prouder  man  got  up  than  Pistol  Joe  that 

night  — 
Till  "  rhythm  "  came  !     He  tried  to  smile,  then  said  "they 

had  him  there," 
And  Lanky  Jim,  with  one  long  stride,  got  up  and  took  his 

chair. 

0  little  kids,  my  pretty  kids,  't  was  touchin'  to  survey 
These  bearded  men,  with  weppings  on,  like  scnoolboys  at 

their  play. 
They  'd  laugh  with  glee,  and  shout  to  see  each  other  lead 

the  van, 

And  Bob  sat  up  as  monitor  with  a  cue  for  a  rattan, 
Till  the  Chair  gave  out  "  incinerate,"  and  Brown  said  he  'd 

be  durned 
If  any  such  blamed  word  as  that  in  school  was  ever  learned. 

When  "  phthisis  "  came  they  all  sprang  up,  and  vowed  the 

man  who  rung 

Another  blamed  Greek  word  on  them  be  taken  out  and  hung. 
As  they  sat  down  again  I  saw  in  Bilson's  eye  a  flash, 
And  Brown  of  Calaveras  was  a-twistin'  his  mustache, 
And  when  at  last  Brown  slipped  on  "  gneiss,"  and  Bilson 

took  his  chair, 
He  dropped  some  casual  words  about  some  folks  who  dyed 

their  hair. 


186  IN  DIALECT 

And  then  the  Chair  grew  very  white,  and  the  Chair  said 

he  'd  adjourn, 
But  Poker  Dick  remarked  that  he  would  wait  and  get  his 

turn  ; 
Then  with  a  tremblin'*  voice  and  hand,  and  with  a  wanderin' 

eye, 
The  Chair  next  offered  "  eider-duck,"  and  Dick  hegan  with 

it  T  )) 
*> 

And  Bilson  smiled  —  then  Bilson  shrieked  !     Just  how  the 

fight  begun 
I  never  knowed,  for  Bilson  dropped,  and  Dick,  he  moved 

up  one. 

Then  certain  gents  arose  and  said  "  they  'd  business  down 

in  camp," 
And  "  ez  the  road  was  rather  dark,  and  ez  the  night  was 

damp, 
They  ?d  "  —  here  got  up  Three-fingered  Jack  and  locked 

the  door  and  yelled : 
"  No,  not  one  mother's  son  goes  out  till  that  thar  word  is 

spelled ! " 
But  while  the  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  groaned  and  sank 

in  pain, 
And  sank  with  Webster  on  his  chest  and  Worcester  on  his 

brain. 

Below  the  bar  dodged  Poker  Dick,  and  tried  to  look  ez  he 
Was  huntin'  up  authorities  thet  no  one  else  could  see ; 
And  Brown  got  down  behind  the  stove,  allowin'  he  "  was 

cold," 

Till  it  upsot  and  down  his  legs  the  cinders  freely  rolled, 
And  several  gents  called  "  Order  !  "  till  in  his  simple  way 
Poor  Smith   began  with  "  0-r  "  —  "  Or  "  —  and  he  waa 

dragged  away. 


THE   SPELLING  BEE   AT  ANGELS  187 

0  little   kids,   my   pretty  kids,  down  on  your  knees  and 

pray! 

You  've  got  your  eddication  in  a  peaceful  sort  of  way ; 
And  bear  in  mind  thar  may  be  sharps  ez  slings  their  spellin* 

square, 
But  likewise  slings  their  bowie-knives  without  a  thought  or 

care. 
You  wants  to  know  the  rest,  my  dears  ?     Thet  's  all !     In 

me  you  see 
The  only  gent  that  lived  to  tell  about  the  Spellin'  Bee ! 


He  ceased  and  passed,  that  truthful  man ;  the  children  went 
their  way 

With  downcast  heads  and  downcast  hearts  —  but  not  to 
sport  or  play. 

For  when  at  eve  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  supperless  to  bed 

Each  child  was  sent,  with  tasks  undone  and  lessons  all  un 
said, 

No  man  might  know  the  awful  woe  that  thrilled  their 
youthful  frames, 

As  they  dreamed  of  Angels  Spelling  Bee  and  thought  of 
Truthful  James. 


ARTEMIS   IN   SIERRA 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 
Poet.     Philosopher.    Jones  of  Mariposa 

POET 

Halt !     Here  we  are.     Now  wheel  your  mare  a  trifle 
Just  where  you  stand ;  then  doff  your  hat  and  swear 

Never  yet  was  scene  you  might  cover  with  your  rifle 
Half  as  complete  or  as  rnarvelously  fair. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Dropped  from  Olympus  or  lifted  out  of  Tempe, 
Swung  like  a  censer  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky ! 

He  who  in  Greece  sang  of  flocks  and  flax  and  hemp,  —  he 
Here  might  recall  them  —  six  thousand  feet  on  high  ! 

POET 
Well  you  may  say  so.     The  clamor  of  the  river, 

Hum  of  base  toil,  and  man's  ignoble  strife, 
Halt  far  below,  where  the  stifling  sunbeams  quiver, 

But  never  climb  to  this  purer,  higher  life ! 

Not  to  this  glade,  where  Jones  of  Mariposa, 

Simple  and  meek  as  his  flocks  we  're  looking  at, 

Tends  his  soft  charge  j  nor  where  his  daughter  Rosa  — 

(A  shot.) 
Hallo!     What's  that? 

PHILOSOPHER 

A  —  something  thro'  my  hat  — 
Bullet,  I  think.     You  were  speaking  of  his  daughter  ? 


ARTEMIS   IN   SIERRA  189 

POET 

Yes;  but  —  your  hat  you  were  moving  through  the  leaves; 

Likely  he  thought  it  some  eagle  bent  on  slaughter. 
Lightly  he  shoots  —     (A  second  shot.) 

PHILOSOPHER 

As  one  readily  perceives. 

Still,  he  improves  !     This  time  your  hat  has  got  it, 
Quite  near  the  band  !     Eh  ?     Oh,  just  as  you  please  — 
Stop,  or  go  on. 

POET 

Perhaps  we  'd  better  trot  it 
Down  through  the  hollow,  and  up  among  the  trees. 

BOTH 

Trot,  trot,  trot,  where  the  bullets  cannot  follow; 
Trot  down  and  up  again  among  the  laurel  trees. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Thanks,  that  is  better  ;  now  of  this  shot-dispensing 
Jones  and  his  girl  —  you  were  saying  — 

POET 

Well,  you  see  — 

I  —  hang  it  all !  —  Oh  !  what  7s  the  use  of  fencing  ! 
Sir,  I  confess  it !  —  these  shots  were  meant  for  me. 

PHILOSOPHER 

iTou  !  are  you  mad  ! 

POET 

God  knows,  I  should  n't  wonder  I 
I  love  this  coy  nymph,  who,  coldly  —  as  yon  peak 


190  IN  DIALECT 

Shines  on  the  river  it  feeds,  yet  keeps  asunder  — 
Long  have  I  worshiped,  but  never  dared  to  speak. 

Till  she,  no  doubt,  her  love  no  longer  hiding, 

Waked  by  some  chance  word  her  father's  jealousy ; 

Slips  her  disdain  —  as  an  avalanche  down  gliding 

Sweeps  flocks  and  kin  away  —  to  clear  a  path  for  me. 

Hence  his  attack. 

PHILOSOPHER 
I  see.     What  I  admire 
Chiefly,  I  think,  in  your  idyl,  so  to  speak, 
Is  the  cool  modesty  that  checks  your  youthful  fire,  — 
Absence  of  self-love  and  abstinence  of  cheek ! 

Still,  I  might  mention,  J've  met  the  gentle  Rosa,  — 
Danced  with  her  thrice,  to  her  father's  jealous  dread ; 

And,  it  is  possible,  she  9a  happened  to  disclose  a  — 
Ahem !     You  can  fancy  why  he  shoots  at  me  instead. 

POET 
You? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Me.     But  kindly  take  your  hand  from  your  revolver* 
I  am  not  choleric  —  but  accidents  may  chance. 
And  here  's  the  father,  who  alone  can  be  the  solver 
Of  this  twin  riddle  of  the  hat  and  the  romance. 
Enter  JONES  OF  MARIPOSA. 

POET 

Speak,  shepherd  —  mine  ! 

PHILOSOPHER 

Hail  !     Time-and-cartridge 
Aimless  exploder  of  theories  and  skill ! 
.Whom  do  you  shoot  ? 


ARTEMIS   IN   SIERRA  191 

JONES    OF    MARIPOSA 

Well,  shootin'  ain't  my  taste,  or 
Ef  I  shoot  anything  —  I  only  shoot  to  kill. 

That  ain't  what 's  up.     I  only  kem  to  tell  ye  — 
Sportin'  or  courtin'  —  trot  homeward  for  your  life  ! 

Gals  will  be  gals,  and  pVaps  it 's  just  ez  well  ye 
Larned  there  was  one  had  no  wish  to  be  —  a  wife. 

POET 
What? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Is  this  true  ? 

JONES    OF    MARIPOSA 

I  reckon  it  looks  like  it. 

She  saw  ye  comin'.     My  gun  was  standin'  by  5 
She  made  a  grab,  and  'fore  I  up  could  strike  it, 
Blazed  at  ye  both !     The  critter  is  so  shy ! 

POET 

Who? 

JONES    OF    MARIPOSA 

My  darter ! 

PHILOSOPHER 

Kosa? 

JONES    OF    MARIPOSA 

Same!     Good-by! 


JACK   OF   THE    TITLES 
(SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA) 

SHREWDLY  you  question,  Senor,  and  I  fancy 
You  are  no  novice.     Confess  that  to  little 
Of  my  poor  gossip  of  Mission  and  Pueblo 
You  are  a  stranger  ! 

Am  I  not  right  ?     Ah  !  believe  me,  that  ever 
Since  we  joined  company  at  the  posada 
I  ?ve  watched  you  closely,  and  —  pardon  an  old  priest 
I  Jve  caught  you  smiling  ! 

Smiling  to  hear  an  old  fellow  like  me  talk 
Gossip  of  pillage  and  robbers,  and  even 
Air  his  opinion  of  law  and  alcaldes 
Like  any  other  ! 


!  —  by  that  twist  of  the  wrist  on  the  bridle, 
By  that  straight  line  from  the  heel  to  the  shoulder, 
By  that  curt  speech,  —  nay  !  nay  !  no  offense,  son, 
You  are  a  soldier  ? 

No  ?     Then  a  man  of  affairs  ?     San  Sebastian  ! 
?T  would  serve  me  right  if  I  prattled  thus  wildly 
To  —  say  a  sheriff  ?     No  ?  —  just  caballero  ? 
Well,  more's  the  pity. 

Ah  !   what  we  want  here  's  a  man  of  your  presence  ; 
Sano,  Secreto,  —  yes,  all  the  four  S's, 


JACK   OF   THE   TITLES  193 

Joined  with  a  boldness  and  dash,  when  the  time  comes, 
And  —  may  I  say  it  ?  — 

One  not  too  hard  on  the  poor  country  people, 
Peons  and  silly  vaqueros,  who,  dazzled 
By  reckless  skill,  and,  perchance,  reckless  largesse, 
Wink  at  some  queer  things. 

No  ?     You  would  crush  them  as  well  as  the  robbers,  — 
Eoot  them  out,  scatter  them  ?      Ah  !   you  are  bitter  — 
And  yet  —  quien  sabe,  perhaps  that 's  the  one  way 
To  catch  their  leader. 

As  to  myself,  now,  I  'd  share  your  displeasure  ; 
For  I  admit  in  this  Jack  of  the  Tules 
Certain  good  points.     He  still  comes  to  confession  — 
You  >d  « like  to  catch  him  "  ? 

Ah,  if  you  did  at  such  times,  you  might  lead  him 
Home  by  a  thread.      Good  !     Again  you  are  smiling : 
You  have  no  faith  in  such  shrift,  and  but  little 
In  priest  or  penitent. 

Bueno  !     We  take  no  offense,  sir  ;  whatever 
It  please  you  to  say,  it  becomes  us,  for  Church  sake, 
To  bear  in  peace.      Yet,  if  you  were  kinder  — 
And  less  suspicious  — 

I  might  still  prove  to  you,  Jack  of  the  Tules 
Shames  not  our  teaching ;  nay,  even  might  show  you, 
Hard  by  this  spot,  his  old  comrade,  who,  wounded, 
Lives  on  his  bounty. 

If  —  ah,  you  listen  !  —  I  see  I  can  trust  you ; 
Then,  on  your  word  as  a  gentleman  —  follow. 


194  IN  DIALECT 

Under  that  sycamore  stands  the  old  cabin ; 
There  sits  his  comrade. 


Eh  !  —  are  you  mad  ?     You  would  try  to  arrest  him  ? 
You,  with  a  warrant  ?    Oh,  well,  take  the  rest  of  them : 
Pedro,  Bill,  Murray,  Pat  Doolan.     Hey  !  —  all  of  you, 
Tumble  out,  d n  it ! 

There  !  —  that  '11    do,  boys  !      Stand    back  !      Ease  his 

elbows ; 
Take  the  gag  from  his  mouth.     Good  !    Now  scatter  like 

devils 

After  his  posse  —  four  straggling,  four  drunken  — 
At  the  posada. 

You  ^—  help  me  off  with  these  togs,  and  then  vamos ! 
Now,  ole  Jeff  Dobbs  !  —  Sheriff,  Scout,  and  Detective  ! 
You  ?re  so  derned  'cute  !     Kinder  sick,  ain't  ye,  bluffing 
Jack  of  theTules! 


IV.  MISCELLANEOUS 
A  GREYPOET   LEGEND 

(1797) 

THEY  ran  through  the  streets  of  the  seaport  town, 
They  peered  from  the  decks  of  the  ships  that  lay ; 
The  cold  sea-fog  that  came  whitening  down 
Was  never  as  cold  or  white  as  they. 

"  Ho,  Starbuck  and  Pinckney  and  Tenterden  ! 
Run  for  your  shallops,  gather  your  men, 
Scatter  your  boats  on  the  lower  bay." 

Good  cause  for  fear !     In  the  thick  mid-day 

The  hulk  that  lay  by  the  rotting  pier, 

Filled  with  the  children  in  happy  play, 

Parted  its  moorings  and  drifted  clear, 

Drifted  clear  beyond  reach  or  call,  — 
Thirteen  children  they  were  in  all,  — 
All  adrift  in  the  lower  bay  ! 

Said  a  hard-faced  skipper,  "  God  help  us  all ! 

She  will  not  float  till  the  turning  tide ! " 

Said  his  wife,  "  My  darling  will  hear  my  call, 

Whether  in  sea  or  heaven  she  bide ; " 

And  she  lifted  a  quavering  voice  and  high, 
Wild  and  strange  as  a  sea-bird's  cry, 

Till  they  shuddered  and  wondered  at  her  side. 


196  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  fog  drove  down  on  each  laboring  crew, 
Veiled  each  from  each  and  the  sky  and  shore : 
There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  breath  they  drew, 
And  the  lap  of  water  and  creak  of  oar ; 

And  they  felt  the  breath  of  the  downs,  fresh  blown 
O'er  leagues  of  clover  and  cold  gray  stone, 
But  not  from  the  lips  that  had  gone  before. 

They  came  no  more.     But  they  tell  the  tale 
That,  when  fogs  are  thick  on  the  harbor  reef, 
The  mackerel  fishers  shorten  sail  — 
For  the  signal  they  know  will  bring  relief ; 
For  the  voices  of  children,  still  at  play 
In  a  phantom  hulk  that  drifts  alway 

Through  channels  whose  waters  never  faiL 

It  is  but  a  foolish  shipman's  tale, 

A  theme  for  a  poet's  idle  page ; 

But  still,  when  the  mists  of  Doubt  prevail, 

And  we  lie  becalmed  by  the  shores  of  Age, 
We  hear  from  the  misty  troubled  shore 
The  voice  of  the  children  gone  before, 
Drawing  the  soul  to  its  anchorage. 


A  NEWPORT   ROMANCE 

THEY  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 
(I  tell  the  tale  as  't  was  told  to  me)  ; 

But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 
Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French : 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms  —  poor  wench ! 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 

Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  gold-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened  —  the  mischief  take  her  ! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave  ;   and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
Erom  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 


198  MISCELLANEOUS 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead-and-gone  bouquet^ 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story ;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ? 

I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night,  — 
Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea ; 

And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 
In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two ; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 
From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.     Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  overwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret  ? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette ! 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost  — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean  —  to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat 


A   NEWPORT   ROMANCE  199 

In  my  neighbor's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss ; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is, 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn ; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 
As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 

Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 
And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 

That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 

And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door ; 
For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 

She  is  viewless  for  evermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 

Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 
t  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 

She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night ! 


SAJST   FBANCISCO 
(FROM  THE  SEA) 

SERENE,  indifferent  of  Fate, 
Thou  sittest  at  the  Western  Gate ; 

Upon  thy  height,  so  lately  won, 
Still  slant  the  banners  of  the  sun ; 

Thou  seest  the  white  seas  strike  their  tents, 
O  Warder  of  two  continents  ! 

And,  scornful  of  the  peace  that  flies 
Thy  angry  winds  and  sullen  skies, 

Thou  drawest  all  things,  small  or  great, 
To  thee,  beside  the  Western  Gate. 

0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast ! 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  willful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material. 

Drop  down,  0  Fleecy  Fog,  and  hide 
Her  skeptic  sneer  and  all  her  pride  ! 


SAN   FRANCISCO  201 

Wrap  her,  0  Fog,  in  gown  and  hood 
Of  her  Franciscan  Brotherhood. 

Hide  me  her  faults,  her  sin  and  blame ; 
With  thy  gray  mantle  cloak  her  shame ! 

So  shall  she,  cowled,  sit  and  pray 
Till  morning  bears  her  sins  away. 

Then  rise,  0  Fleecy  Fog,  and  raise 
The  glory  of  her  coming  days ; 

Be  as  the  cloud  that  flecks  the  seas 
Above  her  smoky  argosies ; 

When  forms  familiar  shall  give  place 
To  stranger  speech  and  newer  face ; 

When  all  her  throes  and  anxious  fears 
Lie  hushed  in  the  repose  of  years ; 

When  Art  shall  raise  and  Culture  lift 
The  sensual  joys  and  meaner  thrift, 

And  all  fulfilled  the  vision  we 

Who  watch  and  wait  shall  never  see ; 

Who,  in  the  morning  of  her  race, 
Toiled  fair  or  meanly  in  our  place, 

But,  yielding  to  the  common  lot, 
Lie  unrecorded  and  forgot. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   HEART'S-EASE 

BY  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting, 

By  furrowed  glade  and  dell, 
To  feverish  men  thy  calm,  sweet  face  uplifting, 

Thou  stayest  them  to  tell 

The  delicate  thought  that  cannot  find  expression, 

For  ruder  speech  too  fair, 
That,  like  thy  petals,  trembles  in  possession, 

And  scatters  on  the  air. 

The  miner  pauses  in  his  rugged  labor, 

And,  leaning  on  his  spade, 
Laughingly  calls  unto  his  comrade-neighbor 

To  see  thy  charms  displayed. 

But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises, 

And  for  a  moment  clear 
Some  sweet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises, 

And  passes  in  a  tear,  — 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village, 

Of  uneventful  toil, 
Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 

Above  a  peaceful  soil. 

One  moment  only  ;  for  the  pick,  uplifting, 

Through  root  and  fibre  cleaves, 
And  on  the  muddy  current  slowly  drifting 

Are  swept  by  bruised  leaves. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   HEART'S-EASE  203 

And  yet,  0  poet,  in  thy  homely  fashion, 

Thy  work  thou  dost  fulfill, 
For  on  the  turbid  current  of  his  passion 

Thy  face  is  shining  still  1 


GEIZZLY. 

COWARD,  —  of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise ; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks  ; 
Robber,  —  whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard ; 
Whiskered  chin  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 
Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 
Shambling,  shuffling  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed  ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half-human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets,  — • 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 
In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 
Thou  mayst  levy  tithe  and  dole  ; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear ; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still ! 


MADRONO 

CAPTAIN  of  the  Western  wood, 
Thou  that  apest  Robin  Hood ! 
Green  above  thy  scarlet  hose, 
How  thy  velvet  mantle  shows! 
Never  tree  like  thee  arrayed, 
0  thou  gallant  of  the  glade  ! 

When  the  fervid  August  sun 
Scorches  all  it  looks  upon, 
And  the  balsam  of  the  pine 
Drips  from  stem  to  needle  fine, 
Round  thy  compact  shade  arranged, 
Not  a  leaf  of  thee  is  changed ! 

• 

When  the  yellow  autumn  sun 
Saddens  all  it  looks  upon, 
Spreads  its  sackcloth  on  the  hills, 
Strews  its  ashes  in  the  rills, 
Thou  thy  scarlet  hose  dost  doff, 
And  in  limbs  of  purest  buff 
Challengest  the  sombre  glade 
For  a  sylvan  masquerade. 

Where,  oh,  where,  shall  he  begin 
Who  would  paint  thee,  Harlequin  ? 
With  thy  waxen  burnished  leaf, 
With  thy  branches'  red  relief, 
With  thy  poly  tinted  fruit,  — 
In  thy  spring  or  autumn  suit,  — 
Where  begin,  and  oh,  where  end, 
Thou  whose  charms  all  art  transcend  ? 


COYOTE 

BLOWN  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid,  yet  lazy  all  through ; 
Loath  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing,  an  outcast  in  gray. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping,  now  limping,  now  risking  a  fall, 
Lop-eared  and  large- jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  gray. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow,  —  he 's  one  of  your  kind,  — 
Go,  seek  him,  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 
What !  'snarling,  my  Carlo  !     So  even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  gray. 

Well,  take  what  you  will,  —  though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding  or  begging,  —  I  shall  not  ask  why, 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  gray  ! 


TO   A   SEA-BIRD 

(SANTA  CRUZ,  1869) 

SAUNTERING  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond,  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale  that  rings,  — 

Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that >s  new ; 

Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee ; 
Sick  am  I  of  these  changes,  too ; 
Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me ; 
All  of  my  journey  ings  end  them  here  : 
This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer,  — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seek'st  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


WHAT   THE   CHIMNEY   SANG 

OVER  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

And  the  Woman  stopped,  as  her  babe  she  tossed, 
And  thought  of  the  one  she  had  long  since  lost, 

And  said,  as  her  teardrops  back  she  forced, 
"  I  hate  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew  ; 

And  the  Children  said,  as  they  closer  drew, 

"  ;T  is  some  witch  that  is  cleaving  the  black  night 
through, 

?T  is  a  fairy  trumpet  that  just  then  blew, 
And  we  fear  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

And  the  Man,  as  he  sat  on  his  hearth  below, 
Said  to  himself,  "  It  will  surely  snow, 

And  fuel  is  dear  and  wages  low, 

And  I  '11  stop  the  leak  in  the  chimney." 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

But  the  Poet  listened  and  smiled,  for  he 
Was  Man  and  Woman  and  Child,  all  three, 

And  said,  "It  is  God's  own  harmony, 
This  wind  we  hear  in  the  chimney." 


DICKENS   IN   CAMP 

ABOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  «  Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp  with  "  Nell "  on  English  meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 


210  MISCELLANEOUS 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  overtaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp  and  wasted  all  its  fire ; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ? 
Ah  !  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 
•  Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp,  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vine's  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That'fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, 

This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 
July,  18T(X 


"TWENTY   YEABS" 

BEG  your  pardon,  old  fellow !     I  think 
I  was  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke. 
The  fact  is,  the  musical  clink 
Of  the  ice  on  your  wine-goblet's  brink 
A  chord  of  my  memory  woke. 

And  I  stood  in  the  pasture-field  where 
Twenty  summers  ago  I  had  stood ; 
And  I  heard  in  that  sound,  I  declare, 
The  clinking  of  bells  in  the  air, 
Of  the  cows  coming  home  from  the  wood. 

Then  the  apple-bloom  shook  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  mullein-stalks  tilted  each  lance ; 
And  the  sun  behind  Rapalye's  mill 
Was  my  uttermost  West,  and  could  thrill 
Like  some  fanciful  land  of  romance. 

Then  my  friend  was  a  hero,  and  then 
My  girl  was  an  angel.     In  fine, 
I  drank  buttermilk  ;  for  at  ten 
Faith  asks  less  to  aid  her  than  when 
At  thirty  we  doubt  over  wine. 

Ah,  well,  it  does  seem  that  I  must 

Have  been  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke, 

Or  lost,  very  like,  in  the  dust 

Of  the  years  that  slow  fashioned  the  crust 

On  that  bottle  whose  seal  you  last  broke. 


212  MISCELLANEOUS 

Twenty  years  was  its  age,  did  you  say  ? 
Twenty  years  ?     Ah',  my  friend,  it  is  true  ! 
All  the  dreams  that  have  flown  since  that  day, 
All  the  hopes  in  that  time  passed  away, 
Old  friend,  I  ;ve  been  drinking  with  you  1 


FATE 

"  THE  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare, 
The  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in  air ; 
The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 

f<  The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 
The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb ; 
And  the  lion's  whelps  are  abroad  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  join  in  the  chase  to-day." 

But  the  ship  sailed  safely  over  the  sea, 
And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in  glee  5 
And  the  town  that  was  builded  upon  a  rock 
Was  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake  shock. 


GKANDMOTHEK   TENTEEDEN 

(MASSACHUSETTS  SHORE,  1800) 

I  MIND  it  was  but  yesterday : 
The  sun  was  dim,  the  air  was  chill ; 
Below  the  town,  below  the  hill, 
The  sails  of  my  son's  ship  did  fill,  — 

My  Jacob,  who  was  cast  away. 

He  said,  "  God  keep  you,  mother  dear," 
But  did  not  turn  to  kiss  his  wife  ; 
They  had  some  foolish,  idle  strife ; 
Her  tongue  was  like  a  two-edged  knife, 

And  he  was  proud  as  any  peer. 

Howbeit  that  night  I  took  no  note 
Of  sea  nor  sky,  for  all  was  drear ; 
I  marked  not  that  the  hills  looked  near, 
Nor  that  the  moon,  though  curved  and  clear, 

Through  curd-like  scud  did  drive  and  float. 

For  with  my  darling  went  the  joy 
Of  autumn  woods  and  meadows  brown ; 
I  came  to  hate  the  little  town ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  went  down 

With  him,  my  only  darling  boy. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night : 
The  wind,  it  shifted  west-by-south,  — 
It  piled  high  up  the  harbor  mouth  ; 


GKANDMOTHER   TENTEKDEN  215 

The  marshes,  black  with  summer  drouth, 
Were  all  abroad  with  sea-foam  white. 


It  was  the  middle  of  the  night : 
The  sea  upon  the  garden  leapt, 
And  my  son's  wife  in  quiet  slept, 
And  I,  his  mother,  waked  and  wept, 

When  lo !  there  came  a  sudden  light. 

And  there  he  stood !     His  seaman's  dress 
All  wet  and  dripping  seemed  to  be ; 
The  pale  blue  fires  of  the  sea 
Dripped  from  his  garments  constantly,  — 

I  could  not  speak  through  cowardness. 

"  I  come  through  night  and  storm,"  he  said, 
"  Through  storm  and  night  and  death,"  said  he, 
"  To  kiss  my  wife,  if  it  so  be 
That  strife  still  holds  'twixt  her  and  me, 

For  all  beyond  is  peace,"  he  said. 

"  The  sea  is  His,  and  He  who  sent 
The  wind  and  wave  can  soothe  their  strife ; 
And  brief  and  foolish  is  our  life." 
He  stooped  and  kissed  his  sleeping  wife, 

Then  sighed,  and  like  a  dream  he  went. 

Now,  when  my  darling  kissed  not  me, 
But  her  —  his  wife  —  who  did  not  wake, 
My  heart  within  me  seemed  to  break ; 
I  swore  a  vow,  nor  thenceforth  spake 

Of  what  my  clearer  eyes  did  see. 

And  when  the  slow  weeks  brought  him  not, 
Somehow  we  spake  of  aught  beside  : 


216  MISCELLANEOUS 

For  she  —  her  hope  upheld  her  pride  ; 
And  I  —  in  me  all  hope  had  died, 
And  my  son  passed  as  if  forgot. 

It  was  ahout  the  next  springtide : 
She  pined  and  faded  where  she  stood, 
Yet  spake  no  word  of  ill  or  good ; 
She  had  the  hard,  cold  Edwards'  hlood 

In  all  her  veins  —  and  so  she  died. 

One  time  I  thought,  hefore  she  passed, 
To  give  her  peace ;  but  ere  I  spake 
Methought,  "  He  will  be  first  to  break 
The  news  in  heaven,"  and  for  his  sake 

I  held  mine  back  until  the  last. 

And  here  I  sit,  nor  care  to  roam  ; 
I  only  wait  to  hear  his  call. 
I  doubt  not  that  this  day  next  fall 
Shall  see  me  safe  in  port,  where  all 

And  every  ship  at  last  comes  home. 

And  you  have  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
And  knew  my  Jacob  ?  .  .  .  Eh  !     Mercy  ! 
Ah !   God  of  wisdom  !   hath  the  sea 
Yielded  its 'dead  to  humble  me  ? 

My  boy !  .  .  .  My  Jacob !  .  .  .  Turn  again ! 


GUILD'S   SIGNAL 

[William  Guild  was  engineer  of  the  train  which  on  the  I9tli  of  April, 
1873,  plunged  into  Meadow  Brook,  on  the  line  of  the  Stonington  and 
Providence  Railroad.  It  was  his  custom,  as  often  as  he  passed  his  home, 
to  whistle  an  "  All 's  well  "  to  his  wife.  He  was  found,  after  the  disaster, 
dead,  with  his  hand  on  the  throttle-valve  of  his  engine.] 

Two  low  whistles,  quaint  and  clear : 
That  was  the  signal  the  engineer  — 

That  was  the  signal  that  Guild,  }t  is  said  — 
Gave  to  his  wife  at  Providence, 
As  through  the  sleeping  town,  and  thence, 
Out  in  the  night, 
On  to  the  light, 
Down  past  the  farms,  lying  white,  he  sped  ! 

As  a  husband's  greeting,  scant,  no  doubt, 
Yet  to  the  woman  looking  out, 

Watching  and  waiting,  no  serenade, 
Love-song,  or  midnight  roundelay 
Said  what  that  whistle  seemed  to  say  : 
"  To  my  trust  true, 
So,  love,  to  you  ! 
Working  or  waiting,  good-night  I  "  it  said. 

Brisk  young  bagmen,  tourists  fine, 
Old  commuters  along  the  line, 

Brakemen  and  porters  glanced  ahead, 
Smiled  as  the  signal,  sharp,  intense, 
Pierced  through  the  shadows  of  Providence : 
"  Nothing  amiss  — 
Nothing !  —  it  is 
Only  Guild  calling  his  wife,"  they  said. 


218  MISCELLANEOUS 

Summer  and  winter  the  old  refrain 
Rang  o'er  the  billows  of  ripening  grain, 

Pierced  through  the  budding  boughs  overhead, 
Flew  down  the  track  when  the  red  leaves  burned 
Like  living  coals  from  the  engine  spurned  i 

Sang  as  it  flew, 
"  To  our  trust  true, 
First  of  all,  duty.     Good-night !  "  it  said. 

And  then,  one  night,  it  was  heard  no  more 
From  Stonington  over  Rhode  Island  shore, 

And  the  folk  in  Providence  smiled  and  said 
As  they  turned  in  their  beds,  "  The  engineer 
Has  once  forgotten  his  midnight  cheer." 
One  only  knew, 
To  his  trust  true, 
Guild  lay  under  his  engine,  dead. 


ASPIBING   MISS   DE   LAINE 
(A  CHEMICAL  NARRATIVE) 

CERTAIN  facts  which  serve  to  explain 
The  physical  charms  of  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Who,  as  the  common  reports  obtain, 
Surpassed  in  complexion  the  lily  and  rose ; 
With  a  very  sweet  mouth  and  a  retrousse  nose ; 
A  figure  like  Hebe's,  or  that  which  revolves 
In  a  milliner's  window,  and  partially  solves 
That  question  which  mentor  and  moralist  pains, 
If  grace  may  exist  minus  feeling  or  brains. 

Of  course  the  young  lady  had  beaux  by  the  score, 

All  that  she  wanted,  —  what  girl  could  ask  more  ? 

Lovers  that  sighed  and  lovers  that  swore, 

Lovers  that  danced  and  lovers  that  played, 

Men  of  profession,  of  leisure,  and  trade ; 

But  one,  who  was  destined  to  take  the  high  part 

Of  holding  that  mythical  treasure,  her  heart,  — 

This  lover,  the  wonder  and  envy  of  town, 

Was  a  practicing  chemist,  a  fellow  called  Brown. 

I  might  here  remark  that  't  was  doubted  by  many, 
In  regard  to  the  heart,  if  Miss  Addie  had  any ; 
But  no  one  could  look  in  that  eloquent  face, 
With  its  exquisite  outline  and  features  of  grace, 
And  mark,  through  the  transparent  skin,  how  the  tide 
Ebbed  and  flowed  at  the  impulse  of  passion  or  pride,  — 
None  could  look,  who  believed  in  the  blood's  circulation 
As  argued  by  Harvey,  but  saw  confirmation 


220  MISCELLANEOUS 

That  here,  at  least,  Nature  had  triumphed  o'er  art, 
And  as  far  as  complexion  went  she  had  a  heart. 

But  this  par  parenthesis.     Brown  was  the  man 

Preferred  of  all  others  to  carry  her  fan, 

Hook  her  glove,  drape  her  shawl,  and  do  all  that  a  belle 

May  demand  of  the  lover  she  wants  to  treat  well. 

Folks  wondered  and  stared  that  a  fellow  called  Brown  — > 

Abstracted  and  solemn,  in  manner  a  clown, 

111  dressed,  with  a  lingering  smell  of  the  shop  — 

Should  appear  as  her  escort  at  party  or  hop. 

Some  swore  he  had  cooked  up  some  villainous  charm, 

Or  love  philter,  not  in  the  regular  Pharm- 

Acopoeia,  and  thus,  from  pure  malice  prepense, 

Had  bewitched  and  bamboozled  the  young  lady's  sense  \ 

Others  thought,  with  more  reason,  the  secret  to  lie 

In  a  magical  wash  or  indelible  dye ; 

While  Society,  with  its  censorious  eye 

And  judgment  impartial,  stood  ready  to  damn 

What  was  n't  improper  as  being  a  sham. 

For  a  fortnight  the  townfolk  had  all  been  agog 
With  a  party,  the  finest  the  season  had  seen, 
To  be  given  in  honor  of  Miss  Pollywog, 
Who  was  just  coming  out  as  a  belle  of  sixteen. 
The  guests  were  invited  ;   but  one  night  before 
A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  modest  back  door 
Of  Brown's  lab'ratory,  and,  full  in  the  glare 
Of  a  big  purple  bottle,  some  closely  veiled  fair 
Alighted  and  entered  :   to  make  matters  plain, 
Spite  of  veils  and  disguises,  't  was  Addie  De  Laine0 

As  a  bower  for  true  love,  't  was  hardly  the  one 
That  a  lady  would  choose  to  be  wooed  in  or  won : 
No  odor  of  rose  or  sweet  jessamine's  sigh 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAJNE  221 

Breathed  a  fragrance  to  hallow  their  pledge  of  troth  by, 
Nor  the  balm  that  exhales  from  the  odorous  thyme ; 
But  the  gaseous  effusions  of  chloride  of  lime, 
And  salts,  which  your  chemist  delights  to  explain 
As  the  base  of  the  smell  of  the  rose  and  the  drain. 
Think  of  this,  0  ye  lovers  of  sweetness  !  and  know 
What  you  smell  when  you  snuff  up  Lubin  or  Pinaud. 

I  pass  by  the  greetings,  the  transports  and  bliss, 

Which  of  course  duly  followed  a  meeting  like  this, 

And  come  down  to  business,  —  for  such  the  intent 

Of  the  lady  who  now  o'er  the  crucible  leant, 

In  the  glow  of  a  furnace  of  carbon  and  lime, 

Like  a  fairy  called  up  in  the  new  pantomime,  — 

And  give  but  her  words,  as  she  coyly  looked  down 

In  reply  to  the  questioning  glances  of  Brown  : 

"  I  am  taking  the  drops,  and  am  using  the  paste, 

And  the  little  white  powders  that  had  a  sweet  taste, 

Which  you  told  me  would  brighten  the  glance  of  my  eye, 

And  the  depilatory,  and  also  the  dye, 

And   I  'm    charmed  with    the    trial ;    and    now,    my   dear 

Brown, 

I  have  one  other  favor,  —  now,  ducky,  don't  frown,  — 
Only  one,  for  a  chemist  and  genius  like  you 
But  a  trifle,  and  one  you  can  easily  do. 
Now  listen  :  to-morrow,  you  know,  is  the  night 
Of  the  birthday  soiree  of  that  Polly wog  fright ; 
And  I  'm  to  be  there,  and  the  dress  I  shall  wear 
Is  too  lovely  ;  but  "  —     "  But  what  then,  ma  chere  ?  " 
Said  Brown,  as  the  lady  came  to  a  full  stop, 
And  glanced  round  the  shelves  of  the  little  back  shop. 
"  Well,  I  want  —  I  want  something  to  fill  out  the  skirt 
To  the  proper  dimensions,  withouk  being  girt 
In  a  stiff  crinoline,  or  caged  in  a  hoop 
That  shows  through  one's  skirt  like  the  bars  of  a  coop ; 


222  MISCELLANEOUS 

Something  light,  that  a  lady  may  waltz  in,  or  polk, 

With  a  freedom  that  none  but  you  masculine  folk 

Ever  know.     For,  however  poor  woman  aspires, 

She 's  always  bound  down  to  the  earth  by  these  wires. 

Are  you  listening  ?     Nonsense  !  don't  stare  like  a  spoon., 

Idiotic  ;  some  light  thing,  and  spacious,  and  soon  — 

Something  like  —  well,  in  fact  —  something  like  a  balloon !  n 

Here  she  paused  ;  and  here  Brown,  overcome  by  surprise, 
Gave  a  doubting  assent  with  still  wondering  eyes, 
And  the  lady  departed.      But  just  at  the  door 
Something  happened,  —  't  is  true,  it  had  happened  before 
In  this  sanctum  of  science,  —  a  sibilant  sound, 
Like  some  element  just  from  its  trammels  unbound, 
Or  two  substances  that  their  affinities  found. 

The  night  of  the  anxiously  looked  for  soire'e 

Had  come,  with  its  fair  ones  in  gorgeous  array  ; 

With  the  rattle  of  wheels  and  the  tinkle  of  bells, 

And  the  "  How  do  ye  do's  "  and  the  "  Hope  you  are  well's ;  * 

And  the  crush  in  the  passage,  and  last  lingering  look 

You  give  as  you  hang  your  best  hat  on  the  hook ; 

The  rush  of  hot  air  as  the  door  opens  wide ; 

And  your  entry,  —  that  blending  of  self-possessed  pride 

And  humility  shown  in  your  perfect-bred  stare 

At  the  folk,  as  if  wondering  how  they  got  there ; 

With  other  tricks  worthy  of  Vanity  Fair. 

Meanwhile,  the  safe  topic,  the  heat  of  the  room, 

Already  was  losing  its  freshness  and  bloom ; 

Young  people  were  yawning,  and  wondering  when 

The  dance  would  come  off,  and  why  did  n't  it  then : 

When  a  vague  expectation  was  thrilling  the  crowd, 

Lo !  the  door  swung  its  hinges  with  utterance  proud ! 

And  Pompey  announced,  with  a  trumpet-like  strain, 

The  entrance  of  Brown  and  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 


ASPIRING  MISS   DE   LAINE  223 

She  entered  ;  but  oh  !  how  imperfect  the  verb 

To  express  to  the  senses  her  movement  superb ! 

To  say  that  she  "  sailed  in  "  more  clearly  might  tell 

Her  grace  in  its  buoyant  and  billowy  swell. 

Her  robe  was  a  vague  circumambient  space, 

With  shadowy  boundaries  made  of  point-lace ; 

The  rest  was  but  guesswork,  and  well  might  defy 

The  power  of  critical  feminine  eye 

To  define  or  describe  :  'twere  as  futile  to  try 

The  gossamer  web  of  the  cirrus  to  trace, 

Floating  far  in  the  blue  of  a  warm  summer  sky. 

' Midst  the  humming  of  praises  and  glances  of  beaux 

That  greet  our  fair  maiden  wherever  she  goes, 

Brown  slipped  like  a  shadow,  grim,  silent,  and  black, 

With  a  look  of  anxiety,  close  in  her  track. 

Once  he  whispered  aside  in  her  delicate  ear 

A  sentence  of  warning,  —  it  might  be  of  fear  : 

"  Don't  stand  in  a  draught,  if  you  value  your  life." 

(Nothing    more,  —  such    advice    might    be    given    your 

wife 

Or  your  sweetheart,  in  times  of  bronchitis  and  cough, 
Without  mystery,  romance,  or  frivolous  scoff.) 
But  hark  to  the  music ;  the  dance  has  begun. 
The  closely  draped  windows  wide  open  are  flung ; 
The  notes  of  the  piccolo,  joyous  and  light, 
Like  bubbles  burst  forth  on  the  warm  summer  night. 
Round  about  go  the  dancers  ;  in  circles  they  fly  ; 
Trip,  trip,  go  their  feet  as  their  skirts  eddy  by ; 
And  swifter  and  lighter,  but  somewhat  too  plain, 
Whisks  the  fair  circumvolving  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 
Taglioni  and  Cerito  well  might  have  pined 
For  the  vigor  and  ease  that  her  movements  combined ; 
E'en  Rigelboche  never  flung  higher  her  robe 
In  the  naughtiest  city  that 's  known  on  the  globe. 


224  MISCELLANEOUS 

'T  was  amazing,  *t  was  scandalous ;   lost  in  surprise,  ' 
Some  opened  their  mouths,  and  a  few  shut  their  eyes. 

But  hark !     At  the  moment  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Circling  round  at  the  outer  edge  of  an  ellipse 
Which  brought  her  fair  form  to  the  window  again, 
From  the  arms  of  her  partner  incautiously  slips  ! 
And  a  shriek  fills  the  air,  and  the  music  is  still, 
And  the  crowd  gather  round  where  her  partner  forlorn 
Still  frenziedly  points  from  the  wide  window-sill 
Into  space  and  the  night ;  for  Miss  Addie  was  gone  I 
Gone  like  the  bubble  that  bursts  in  the  sun ; 
Gone  like  the  grain  when  the  reaper  is  done ; 
Gone  like  the  dew  on  the  fresh  morning  grass ; 
Gone  without  parting  farewell ;  and  alas  ! 
Gone  with  a  flavor  of  hydrogen  gas ! 

When  the  weather  is  pleasant,  you  frequently  meet 
A  white-headed  man  slowly  pacing  the  street ; 
His  trembling  hand  shading  his  lack-lustre  eye, 
Half  blind  with  continually  scanning  the  sky. 
Rumor  points  him  as  some  astronomical  sage, 
Re-perusing  by  day  the  celestial  page ; 
But  the  reader,  sagacious,  will  recognize  Brown, 
Trying  vainly  to  conjure  his  lost  sweetheart  down, 
And  learn  the  stern  moral  this  story  must  teach, 
That  Genius  may  lift  its  love  out  of  its  reach. 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE 

ABOVE  the  bones 
St.  Ursula  owns, 

And  those  of  the  virgins  she  chaperons ; 
Above  the  boats, 
And  the  bridge  that  floats, 

And  the  Rhine  and  the  steamers'  smoky  throats ; 
Above  the  chimneys  and  quaint-tiled  roofs, 
Above  the  clatter  of  wheels  and  hoofs ; 
Above  Newmarket's  open  space, 
Above  that  consecrated  place 
Where  the  genuine  bones  of  the  Magi  seen  are, 
And  the  dozen  shops  of  the  real  Farina ; 
Higher  than  even  old  Hohestrasse, 
Whose  houses  threaten  the  timid  passer,  — 
Above  them  all, 
Through  scaffolds  tall, 
And  spires  like  delicate  limbs  in  splinters, 
The  great  Cologne's 
Cathedral  stones 
Climb  through  the  storms  of  eight  hundred  winters. 

Unfinished  there, 

In  high  mid-air 
The  towers  halt  like  a  broken  prayer ; 

Through  years  belated, 

Unconsummated, 
The  hope  of  its  architect  quite  frustrated. 

Its  very  youth 

They  say,  forsooth, 


226  MISCELLANEOUS 

With  a  quite  improper  purpose  mated ;      '" 

And  every  stone 

With  a  curse  of  its  own 
Instead  of  that  sermon  Shakespeare  stated, 

Since  the  day  its  choir, 

Which  all  admire, 
By  Cologne's  Archhishop  was  consecrated. 

Ah  !  that  was  a  day, 
One  well  might  say, 

To  be  marked  with  the  largest,  whitest  stone 
To  be  found  in  the  towers  of  all  Cologne ! 
Along  the  Rhine, 
From  old  Bheinstein, 

The  people  flowed  like  their  own  good  wine. 
From  Kudesheim, 
And  Geisenheim, 

And  every  spot  that  is  known  to  rhyme  ; 
From  the  famed  Cat's  Castle  of  St.  Groarshausen? 
To  the  pictured  roofs  of  Assmannshausen, 
And  down  the  track, 
From  quaint  Schwalbach 
To  the  clustering  tiles  of  Bacharach ; 
From  Bingen,  hence 
To  old  Coblentz : 
From  every  castellated  crag, 
Where  the  robber  chieftains  kept  their  "  swag," 
The  folk  flowed  in,  and  Ober-Cassel 
Shone  with  the  pomp  of  knight  and  vassal ; 
And  pouring  in  from  near  and  far, 
As  the  Rhine  to  its  bosom  draws  the  Ahr, 
Or  takes  the  arm  of  the  sober  Mosel, 
So  in  Cologne,  knight,  squire,  and  losel, 
Choked  up  the  city's  gates  with  men 
From  old  St.  Stephen  to  Zint  Marjen. 


A  LEGEND   OF   COLOGNE  227 

What  had  they  come  to  see  ?     Ah  me ! 
I  fear  no  glitter  of  pageantry, 

Nor  sacred  zeal 

For  Church's  weal, 
Nor  faith  in  the  virgins'  bones  to  heal ; 

Nor  childlike  trust  in  frank  confession 
Drew  these,  who,  dyed  in  deep  transgression, 

Still  in  each  nest 

On  every  crest 
Kept  stolen  goods  in  their  possession ; 

But  only  their  gout 

For  something  new, 
More  rare  than  the  "  roast "  of  a  wandering  Jew ; 

Or  —  to  he  exact  — 

To  see  —  in  fact  — 
A  Christian  soul,  in  the  very  act 
Of  being  damned,  secundum  artem, 
By  the  devil,  before  a  soul  could  part  'em. 

For  a  rumor  had  flown 

Throughout  Cologne 
That  the  church,  in  fact,  was  the  devil's  own ; 

That  its  architect 

(Being  long  "  suspect  ") 

Had  confessed  to  the  Bishop  that  he  had  wrecked 
Not  only  his  own  soul,  but  had  lost 
The  very  first  Christian  soul  that  crossed 
The  sacred  threshold  :  and  all,  in  fine, 
For  that  very  beautiful  design 

Of  the  wonderful  choir 

They  were  pleased  to  admire. 
And  really,  he  must  be  allowed  to  say  — > 
To  speak  in  a  purely  business  way  — 
That,  taking  the  ruling  market  prices 
Of  souls  and  churches,  in  such  a  crisis 


228  MISCELLANEOUS 

It  would  be  shown  — 
And  his  Grace  must  own  — 
It  was  really  a  bargain  for  Cologne  ! 

Such  was  the  tale 

That  turned  cheeks  pale 
With  the  thought  that  the  enemy  might  prevail, 

And  the  church  doors  snap 

With  a  thunderclap 
On  a  Christian  soul  in  that  devil's  trap. 

But  a  wiser  few, 

Who  thought  that  they  knew 
Cologne's  Archbishop,  replied,  "  Pooh,  pooh  ! 

Just  watch  him  and  wait, 

And  as  sure  as  fate, 
You  '11  find  that  the  Bishop  will  give  checkmate." 

One  here  might  note 

How  the  popular  vote, 
As  shown  in  all  legends  and  anecdote, 

Declares  that  a  breach 

Of  trust  to  o'erreach 
The  devil  is  something  quite  proper  for  each. 

And,  really,  if  you 

Give  the  devil  his  due 
In  spite  of  the  proverb  —  it 's  something  you  '11  rue. 

But  to  lie  EL  ,  deceive  him, 

To  use  and  to  leave  him, 
From  Job  up  to  Faust  is  the  way  to  receive  him, 

Though  no  one  has  heard 

It  ever  averred 
That  the  "  Father  of  Lies  "  ever  yet  broke  his  word, 

But  has  left  this  position, 

In  every  tradition, 
To  be  taken  alone  by  the  "  truth-loving  "  Christian ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE  229 

Bom !  from  the  tower  ! 

It  is  the  hour  ! 
The  host  pours  in,  in  its  pomp  and  power 

Of  banners  and  pyx, 

And  high  crucifix, 
And  crosiers  and  other  processional  sticks, 

And  no  end  of  Marys 

In  quaint  reliquaries, 
To  gladden  the  souls  of  all  true  antiquaries  ; 

And  an  Osculum  Pacis 

(A  myth  to  the  masses 
Who  trusted  their  bones  more  to  mail  and  cuirasses)  — 

All  borne  by  the  throng 

Who  are  marching  along 
To  the  square  of  the  Dom  with  processional  song, 

With  the  flaring  of  dips, 

And  bending  of  hips, 
And  the  chanting  of  hundred  perfunctory  lips ; 

And  some  good  little  boys 

Who  had  come  up  from  Neuss 
And  the  Quirinuskirche  to  show  off  their  voice  : 

All  march  to  the  square 

Of  the  great  Dom,  and  there 
File  right  and  left,  leaving  alone  and  quite  bare 

A  covered  sedan, 

Containing  —  so  ran 
The  rumor  —  the  victim  to  take  off  the  ban. 

They  have  left  it  alone, 

They  have  sprinkled  each  stone 
Of  the  porch  with  a  sanctified  Eau  de  Cologne, 

Guaranteed  in  this  case 

To  disguise  every  trace 
Of  a  sulphurous  presence  in  that  sacred  place. 

Two  Carmelites  stand 

On  the  right  and  left  hand 


230  MISCELLANEOUS 

Of  the  covered  sedan  chair,  to  wait  the  command 

Of  the  prelate  to  throw 

Up  the  cover  and  show 
The  form  of  the  victim  in  terror  below. 

There 's  a  pause  and  a  prayer, 

Then  the  signal,  and  there  — 
Is  a  woman  !  —  by  all  that  is  good  and  is  fair ! 

A  woman  !  and  known 

To  them  all  —  one  must  own 
Too  well  known  to  the  many,  to-day  to  be  shown 

As  a  martyr,  or  e'en 

As  a  Christian  !     A  queen 
Of  pleasance  and  revel,  of  glitter  and  sheen ; 

So  bad  that  the  worst 

Of  Cologne  spake  up  first, 
And  declared  ?t  was  an  outrage  to  suffer  one  curst, 

And  already  a  fief 

Of  the  Satanic  chief, 
To  martyr  herself  for  the  Church's  relief. 

But  in  vain  fell  their  sneer 

On  the  mob,  who  I  fear 
On  the  whole  felt  a  strong  disposition  to  cheer. 

A  woman  !  and  there 

She  stands  in  the  glare 
Of  the  pitiless  sun  and  their  pitying  stare,  — 

A  woman  still  young, 

With  garments  that  clung 
To  a  figure,  though  wasted  with  passion  and  wrung 

With  remorse  and  despair, 

Yet  still  passing  fair, 
With  jewels  and  gold  in  her  dark  shining  hair, 

And  cheeks  that  are  faint 

'Neath  her  dyes  and  her  paint. 
A  woman  most  surely  —  but  hardly  a  saint ! 


A  LEGEND   OF  COLOGNE  231 

She  moves.     She  has  gone 

From  their  pity  and  scorn  ; 

She  has  mounted  alone 

The  first  step  of  stone, 
the  high  swinging  doors  she  wide  open  has  thrown, 

Then  pauses  and  turns, 

As  the  altar  blaze  burns 
On  her  cheeks,  and  with  one  sudden  gesture  she  spurns 

Archbishop  and  Prior, 

Knight,  ladye,  and  friar, 
And  her  voice  rings  out  high  from  the  vault  of  the  choir. 

"  0  men  of  Cologne  ! 

What  I  was  ye  have  known ; 
What  I  am,  as  I  stand  here,  One  knoweth  alone. 

If  it  be  but  His  will 

I  shall  pass  from  Him  still, 
Lost,  curst,  and  degraded,  I  reckon  no  ill ; 

If  still  by  that  sign 

Of  His  anger  divine 
One  soul  shall  be  saved,  He  hath  blessed  more  than  mine. 

O  men  of  Cologne  ! 

Stand  forth,  if  ye  own 
A  faith  like  to  this,  or  more  fit  to  atone, 

And  take  ye  my  place, 

And  God  give  you  grace 
To  stand  and  confront  Him,  like  me,  face  to  face  !  " 

She  paused.     Yet  aloof 

They  all  stand.     No  reproof 
Breaks  the  silence  that  fills  the  celestial  roof. 

One  instant  —  no  more  — 

She  halts  at  the  door, 
Then  enters  !  .  .  .  A  flood  from  the  roof  to  the  floor 

Fills  the  church  rosy  red. 

She  is  gone ! 


232  MISCELLANEOUS 

But  instead, 
Who  is  this  leaning  forward  with  glorified  head 

And  hands  stretched  to  save  ? 

Sure  this  is  no  slave 
Of  the  Powers  of  Darkness,  with  aspect  so  brave ! 

They  press  to  the  door, 

But  too  late  !     All  is  o'er. 
Naught  remains  but  a  woman's  form  prone  on  the  floor  ; 

But  they  still  see  a  trace 

Of  that  glow  in  her  face 
That  they  saw  in  the  light  of  the  altar's  high  blaze 

On  the  image  that  stands 

With  the  babe  in  its  hands 
Enshrined  in  the  churches  of  all  Christian  lands. 

A  Te  Deum  sung, 

A  censer  high  swung, 
With  praise,  benediction,  and  incense  wide-flung, 

Proclaim  that  the  curse 

Is  removed  —  and  no  worse 
Is  the  Dom  for  the  trial  —  in  fact,  the  reverse  ; 

For  instead  of  their  losing 

A  soul  in  abusing 
The  Evil  One's  faith,  they  gained  one  of  his  choosing. 

Thus  the  legend  is  told : 

You  will  find  in  the  old 
Vaulted  aisles  of  the  Dom,  stiff  in  marble  or  cold 

In  iron  and  brass, 

In  gown  and  cuirass, 
The  knights,  priests,  and  bishops  who  came  to  that  Mass ; 

And  high  o'er  the  rest, 

With  her  babe  at  her  breast, 
The  image  of  Mary  Madonna  the  blest. 


A  LEGEND   OF  COLOGNE  233 

But  you  look  round  in  vain, 

On  each  high  pictured  pane, 

For  the  woman  most  worthy  to  walk  in  her  train. 

Yet,  standing  to-day 

O'er  the  dust  and  the  clay, 
'  Midst  the  ghosts  of  a  life  that  has  long  passed  away, 

With  the  slow-sinking  sun 

Looking  softly  upon 
That  stained-glass  procession,  I  scarce  miss  the  one 

That  it  does  not  reveal, 

For  I  know  and  I  feel 
That  these  are  but  shadows  —  the  woman  was  real ! 


THE  TALE   OF   A  PONY 

KAME  of  my  heroine,  simply  "  Kose  ;  " 
Surname,  tolerable  only  in  prose ; 
Habitat ,  Paris,  —  that  is  where 
She  resided  for  change  of  air ; 
JEtat  twenty  ;   complexion  fair  ; 
Rich,  good  looking,  and  debonnaire  ; 
Smarter  than  Jersey  lightning.     There  ! 
That 's  her  photograph,  done  with  care. 

In  Paris,  whatever  they  do  besides, 
EVERY  LADY  IN  FULL  DRESS  RIDES  ! 
Moire  antiques  you  never  meet 
Sweeping  the  filth  of  a  dirty  street ; 
But  every  woman's  claim  to  ton 

Depends  upon 

The  team  she  drives,  whether  phaeton, 
Landau,  or  britzka.      Hence  it  *s  plain 
That  Rose,  who  was  of  her  toilet  vain, 
Should  have  a  team  that  ought  to  be 
Equal  to  any  in  all  Paris  ! 

Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "     The  commissaire 
Bowed,  and  brought  Miss  Rose  a  pair 
Leading  an  equipage  rich  and  rare. 
Why  doth  that  lovely  lady  stare  ? 
Why  ?     The  tail  of  the  off  gray  mare 
Is  bobbed,  by  all  that  'a  good  and  fair ! 
Like  the  shaving-brushes  that  soldiers  wear, 
Scarcely  showing  as  much  back  hair 


THE   TALE   OF  A   PONY  235 

As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  "  Meg,"  —  and  there, 
Lord  knows,  she  'd  little  enough  to  spare. 

That  stare  and  frown  the  Frenchman  knew, 

But  did  as  well-bred  Frenchmen  do  : 

Raised  his  shoulders  above  his  crown, 

Joined  his  thumbs  with  the  fingers  down, 

And  said,  "  Ah,  Heaven  !  "  —  then,  "  Mademoiselle, 

Delay  one  minute,  and  all  is  well!  " 

He  went  —  returned  ;  by  what  good  chance 

These  things  are  managed  so  well  in  France 

I  cannot  say,  but  he  made  the  sale, 

And  the  bob- tailed  mare  had  a  flowing  tail. 

All  that  is  false  in  this  world  below 

Betrays  itself  in  a  love  of  show ; 

Indignant  Nature  hides  her  lash 

In  the  purple-black  of  a  dyed  mustache ; 

The  shallowest  fop  will  trip  in  French, 

The  would-be  critic  will  misquote  Trench ; 

In  short,  you  're  always  sure  to  detect 

A  sham  in  the  things  folks  most  affect ; 

Bean-pods  are  noisiest  when  dry, 

And  you  always  wink  with  your  weakest  eye : 

And  that 's  the  reason  the  old  gray  mare 

Forever  had  her  tail  in  the  air, 

With  flourishes  beyond  compare, 

Though  every  whisk 

Incurred  the  risk 

Of  leaving  that  sensitive  region  bare. 
She  did  some  things  that  you  could  n't  but  feel 
She  would  n't  have  done  had  her  tail  been  reaL 

Champs  Elysees  :  time,  past  five. 
There  go  the  carriages,  —  look  alive  ! 


236  MISCELLANEOUS 

Everything  that  man  can  drive, 
Or  his  inventive  skill  contrive,  — 
Yankee  buggy  or  English  "  chay," 
Dog-cart,  droschky,  and  smart  coupe*, 
A  desobligeante  quite  bulky 
(French  idea  of  a  Yankee  sulky)  ; 
Band  in  the  distance  playing  a  march, 
Footman  standing  stiff  as  starch  ; 
Savans,  lorettes,  deputies,  Arch- 
Bishops,  and  there  together  range 
Sous-lieutenants  and  cent-gardes  (strange 
Way  these  soldier-chaps  make  change), 
Mixed  with  black-eyed  Polish  dames, 
With  unpronounceable  awful  names ; 
Laces  tremble  and  ribbons  flout, 
Coachmen  wrangle  and  gendarmes  shout  — 
Bless  us  !  what  is  the  row  about  ? 
Ah !  here  comes  Rosy's  new  turnout ! 
Smart !     You  bet  your  life  't  was  that ! 
Nifty  !   (short  for  magnificat). 
Mulberry  panels,  —  heraldic  spread,  — 
Ebony  wheels  picked  out  with  red, 
And  two  gray  mares  that  were  thoroughbred : 
No  wonder  that  every  dandy's  head 
Was  turned  by  the  turnout,  —  and  't  was  said 
That  Casko whisky  (friend  of  the  Czar), 
A  very  good  whip  (as  Russians  are), 
Was  tied  to  Rosy's  triumphal  car, 
Entranced,  the  reader  will  understand, 
By  "  ribbons  "  that  graced  her  head  and  hand. 

Alas  !  the  hour  you  think  would  crown 
Your  highest  wishes  should  let  you  down ! 
Or  Fate  should  turn,  by  your  own  mischance, 
Your  victor's  car  to  an  ambulance, 


THE   TALE   OF  A   PONY  237 

From  cloudless  heavens  her  lightnings  glance  ! 

(And  these  things  happen,  even  in  France.) 

And  so  Miss  Rose,  as  she  trotted  by, 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye, 

Saw  to  her  horror  the  off  mare  shy, 

Flourish  her  tail  so  exceedingly  high 

That,  disregarding  the  closest  tie, 

And  without  giving  a  reason  why, 

She  flung  that  tail  so  free  and  frisky 

Off  in  the  face  of  Caskowhisky. 

Excuses,  blushes,  smiles  :  in  fine, 
End  of  the  pony's  tail,  and  mine ! 


ON  A   CONE   OF  THE   BIG  TREES 
(SEQUOIA  GIGANTEA) 

BROWN  foundling  of  the  Western  wood, 

Babe  of  primeval  wildernesses ! 
Long  on  my  table  thou  hast  stood 

Encounters  strange  and  rude  caresses ; 
Perchance  contented  with  thy  lot, 

Surroundings  new,  and  curious  faces, 
As  though  ten  centuries  were  not 

Imprisoned  in  thy  shining  cases. 

Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  halcyon  days 

Of  grateful  rest,  the  week  of  leisure, 
The  journey  lapped  in  autumn  haze, 

The  sweet  fatigue  that  seemed  a  pleasure, 
The  morning  ride,  the  noonday  halt, 

The  blazing  slopes,  the  red  dust  rising, 
And  then  the  dim,  brown,  columned  vault, 

With  its  cool,  damp,  sepulchral  spicing. 

Once  more  I  see  the  rocking  masts 

That  scrape  the  sky,  their  only  tenant 
The  jay-bird,  that  in  frolic  casts 

From  some  high  yard  his  broad  blue  pennant. 
I  see  the  Indian  files  that  keep 

Their  places  in  the  dusty  heather, 
Their  red  trunks  standing  ankle-deep 

In  moccasins  of  rusty  leather. 


ON  A   CONE   OF   THE   BIG   TREES  239 

I  see  all  this,  and  marvel  much 

That  thou,  sweet  woodland  waif,  art  able 
To  keep  the  company  of  such 

As  throng  thy  friend's  —  the  poet's  —  table  : 
The  latest  spawn  the  press  hath  cast,  — 

The  "  modern  Popes,"  "  the  later  Byrons,"  — 
Why,  e'en  the  best  may  not  outlast 

Thy  poor  relation  —  Sempervirens. 

Thy  sire  saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mohammed's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 

And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present ; 
He  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 

And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches ; 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 

The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches. 

And  must  thou,  foundling,  still  forego 

Thy  heritage  and  high  ambition, 
To  lie  full  lowly  and  full  low, 

Adjusted  to  thy  new  condition  ? 
Not  hidden  in  the  drifted  snows, 

But  under  ink -drops  idly  spattered, 
And  leaves  ephemeral  as  those 

That  on  thy  woodland  tomb  were  scattered  ? 

Yet  lie  thou  there,  0  friend !  and  speak 

The  moral  of  thy  simple  story : 
Though  life  is  all  that  thou  dost  seek, 

And  age  alone  thy  crown  of  glory, 
Not  thine  the  only  germs  that  fail 

The  purpose  of  their  high  creation, 
If  their  poor  tenements  avail 

For  worldly  show  and  ostentation. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN 
(CEMETERY,  SAN  FRANCISCO) 

THIS  is  that  hill  of  awe 
That  Persian  Sindbad  saw,  — 

The  mount  magnetic; 
And  on  its  seaward  face, 
Scattered  along  its  base, 

The  wrecks  prophetic. 

Here  come  the  argosies 
Blown  by  each  idle  breeze, 

To  and  fro  shifting ; 
Yet  to  the  hill  of  Fate 
All  drawing,  soon  or  late,  — 

Day  by  day  drifting ; 

Drifting  forever  here 
Barks  that  for  many  a  year 

Braved  wind  and  weather ; 
Shallops  but  yesterday 
Launched  on  yon  shining  bay,  — • 

Drawn  all  together. 

This  is  the  end  of  all : 
Sun  thyself  by  the  wall, 

O  poorer  Hindbad ! 
Envy  not  Sindbad' s  fame  : 
Here  come  alike  the  same 

Hindbad  and  Sindbad. 


ALNASCHAR 

HEBE'S  yer  toy  balloons  !     All  sizes! 
Twenty  cents  for  that.     It  rises 
Jest  as  quick  as  that  'ere,  Miss, 
Twice  as  big.     Ye  see  it  is 
Some  more  fancy.     Make  it  square 
Fifty  for  'em  both.     That's  fair. 

That 's  the  sixth  I  've  sold  since  noon. 
Trade 's  reviving.     Just  as  soon 
As  this  lot 's  worked  off,  I  '11  take 
Wholesale  figgers.     Make  or  break,  — 
That 's  my  motto  !     Then  I  '11  buy 
In  some  first-class  lottery 
One  half  ticket,  numbered  right  — 
As  I  dreamed  about  last  night. 

That  '11  fetch  it.     Don't  tell  me  ! 
When  a  man 's  in  luck,  you  see, 
All  things  help  him.     Every  chance 
Hits  him  like  an  avalanche. 
Here 's  your  toy  balloons,  Miss.     Eh  ? 
You  won't  turn  your  face  this  way  ? 
Mebbe  you  '11  be  glad  some  day. 
With  that  clear  ten  thousand  prize 
This  'yer  trade  I  '11  drop,  and  rise 
Into  wholesale.     JSTo  !     I  '11  take 
Stocks  in  Wall  Street.     Make  or  break, 
That 's  my  motto !     With  my  luck, 
Where  's  the  chance  of  being  stuck  ? 


242  MISCELLANEOUS 

Call  it  sixty  thousand,  clear, 
Made  in  Wall  Street  in  one  year. 

Sixty  thousand  !     Umph  !     Let 's  see  ! 
Bond  and  mortgage  '11  do  for  me. 
Good  !     That  gal  that  passed  me  by 
Scornful  like  —  why,  mebbe  I 
Some  day  '11  hold  in  pawn  —  why  not  ?  — 
All  her  father's  prop.      She'll  spot 
What 's  my  little  game,  and  see 
What  I  'm  after 's  her.     He  !  he  ! 

He  !  he  !     When  she  comes  to  sue  — 
Let 's  see  !      What 's  the  thing  to  do  ? 
Kick  her  ?     No  !     There 's  the  perliss  ! 
Sorter  throw  her  off  like  this. 
Hello!     Stop!    Help!    Murder!    Hey! 
There  's  my  whole  stock  got  away, 
Kiting  on  the  house-tops  !     Lost ! 
All  a  poor  man's  fortin  !     Cost  ? 
Twenty  dollars  !     Eh  !     What 's  this  ? 
Fifty  cents  !     God  bless  ye,  Miss ! 


THE  TWO   SHIPS 

As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest, 

Looking  over  the  ultimate  sea, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lea  : 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free  ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback,  — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me ! 

But  lo  !  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away, 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see  ; 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee. 
So  I  think  of  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore, 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


ADDEESS 

(OPENING   OF   THE   CALIFORNIA  THEATRE,   SAN   FRAN 
CISCO,  JANUARY  19,  1870) 

BRIEF  words,  when  actions  wait,  are  well : 
The  prompter's  hand  is  on  his  hell ; 
The  coming  heroes,  lovers,  kings, 
Are  idly  lounging  at  the  wings  ; 
Behind  the  curtain's  mystic  fold 
The  glowing  future  lies  unrolled  ; 
And  yet,  one  moment  for  the  Past, 
One  retrospect,  —  the  first  and  last. 

"  The  world  ?s  a  stage,"  the  Master  said. 
To-night  a  mightier  truth  is  read : 
Not  in  the  shifting  canvas  screen, 
The  flash  of  gas  or  tinsel  sheen  ; 
Not  in  the  skill  whose  signal  calls 
From  empty  hoards  haronial  halls ; 
But,  fronting  sea  and  curving  hay, 
Behold  the  players  and  the  play. 

Ah,  friends  !  beneath  your  real  skies 
The  actor's  short-lived  triumph  dies : 
On  that  broad  stage  of  empire  won, 
Whose  footlights  were  the  setting  sun, 
Whose  flats  a  distant  background  rose 
In  trackless  peaks  of  endless  snows ; 
Here  genius  bows,  and  talent  waits 
To  copy  that  but  One  creates. 


ADDRESS  245 

Your  shifting  scenes  :  the  league  of  sand, 

An  avenue  by  ocean  spanned ; 

The  narrow  beach  of  straggling  tents, 

A  mile  of  stately  monuments ; 

Your  standard,  lo  !  a  flag  unfurled, 

Whose  clinging  folds  clasp  half  the  world,  — 

This  is  your  drama,  built  on  facts, 

With  "  twenty  years  between  the  acts." 

One  moment  more  :  if  here  we  raise 
The  oft-sung  hymn  of  local  praise, 
Before  the  curtain  facts  must  sway ; 
Here  waits  the  moral  of  your  play. 
Glassed  in  the  poet's  thought,  you  view 
What  money  can,  yet  cannot  do  ; 
The  faith  that  soars,  the  deeds  that  shine, 
Above  the  gold  that  builds  the  shrine. 

And  oh !  when  others  take  our  place, 
And  Earth's  green  curtain  hides  our  face, 
Ere  on  the  stage,  so  silent  now, 
The  last  new  hero  makes  his  bow : 
So  may  our  deeds,  recalled  once  more 
In  Memory's  sweet  but  brief  encore, 
Down  all  the  circling  ages  run, 
With  the  world's  plaudit  of  "  Well  done  I " 


DOLLY  VARDEN 

DEAR  DOLLY  !  who  does  not  recall 
The  thrilling  page  that  pictured  all 
Those  charms  that  held  our  sense  in  thrall 

Just  as  the  artist  caught  her,  — 
As  down  that  English  lane  she  tripped, 
In  bowered  chintz,  hat  sideways  tipped, 
Trim-bodiced,  bright-eyed,  roguish-lipped,  — • 

The  locksmith's  pretty  daughter  ? 

Sweet  fragment  of  the  Master's  art ! 
O  simple  faith  !      0  rustic  heart ! 
O  maid  that  hath  no  counterpart 

In  life's  dry,  dog-eared  pages  ! 
Where  shall  we  find  thy  like  ?     Ah,  stay ! 
Methinks  I  saw  her  yesterday 
In  chintz  that  flowered,  as  one  might  say, 

Perennial  for  ages. 

Her  father's  modest  cot  was  stone, 
Five  stories  high  ;  in  style  and  tone 
Composite,  and,  I  frankly  own, 

Within  its  walls  revealing 
Some  certain  novel,  strange  ideas : 
A  Gothic  door  with  Roman  piers, 
And  floors  removed  some  thousand  years 

From  their  Pompeian  ceiling. 

The  small  salon  where  she  received 
Was  Louis  Quatorze,  and  relieved 


DOLLY  VARDEN  247< 

By  Chinese  cabinets,  conceived 

Grotesquely  by  the  heathen  ; 
The  sofas  were  a  classic  sight,  — 
The  Koman  bench  (sedilia  hight)  ; 
The  chairs  were  French  in  gold  and  white, 

And  one  Elizabethan. 

And  she,  the  goddess  of  that  shrine, 
Two  ringed  fingers  placed  in  mine,  — 
The  stones  were  many  carats  fine, 

And  of  the  purest  water,  — 
Then  dropped  a  curtsy,  far  enough 
To  fairly  fill  her  cretonne  puff 
And  show  the  petticoat's  rich  stuff 

That  her  fond  parent  bought  her. 

Her  speech  was  simple  as  her  dress,  — 
Not  French  the  more,  but  English  less, 
She  loved ;  yet  sometimes,  I  confess, 

I  scarce  could  comprehend  her. 
Her  manners  were  quite  far  from  shy. 
There  was  a  quiet  in  her  eye 
Appalling  to  the  Hugh  who  'd  try 

With  rudeness  to  offend  her. 

"  But  whence,"  I  cried,  "  this  masquerade  ? 
Some  figure  for  to-night's  charade, 
A  Watteau  shepherdess  or  maid  ?  " 

She  smiled  and  begged  my  pardon : 
"  Why,  surely  you  must  know  the  name,  — - 
That  woman  who  was  Shakespeare's  flame 
Or  Byron's,  —  well,  it 's  all  the  same : 
Why,  Lord !  I  'm  Dolly  Varden  !  » 


TELEMACHUS  VEKSUS  MENTOR 

'T  mind  me,  I  beg  you,  old  fellow,  —  I  '11  do  very  well 

here  alone  ; 
You  must  not  be  kept  from  your  "  German  "  because  I  've 

dropped  in  like  a  stone. 
Leave  all  ceremony  behind  you,  leave  all  thought  of  aught 

but  yourself ; 
And  leave,  if  you  like,  the  Madeira,  and  a  dozen  cigars  on 

the  shelf. 

As  for  me,  you  will  say  to  your  hostess  —  well,  I  scarcely 

need  give  you  a  cue. 
Chant  my  praise !     All  will  list  to  Apollo,  though  Mercury 

pipe  to  a  few. 
Say  just  what  you  please,   my  dear  boy ;   there 's  more 

eloquence  lies  in  youth's  rash 
Outspoken    heart-impulse    than   ever   growled   under   this 

grizzling  mustache. 

Go,  don  the  dress  coat  of  our  tyrant,  —  youth's  panoplied 

armor  for  fight,  — 
And  tie  the  white  neckcloth  that  rumples,  like  pleasure,  and 

lasts  but  a  night ; 
And  pray  the  Nine  Gods  to  avert  you  what  time  the  Three 

Sisters  shall  frown, 
And  you  '11  lose  your  high-comedy  figure,  and  sit  more  at 

ease  in  your  gown. 


TELEMACHUS   VERSUS   MENTOR  249 

He's  off!     There's  his  foot  on  the  staircase.     By  Jove, 

what  a  bound  !     Really  now 
Did  /  ever  leap  like   this  springald,  with  Love's  chaplet 

green  on  my  brow  ? 
Was  /  such  an  ass  ?     No,  I  fancy.     Indeed,  I  remember 

quite  plain 
A  gravity  mixed  with  my  transports,  a  cheerfulness  softened 

my  pain. 

He 's  gone  !  There  's  the  slam  of  his  cab  door,  there 's  the 
clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  wheels  ; 

And  while  he  the  light  toe  is  tripping,  in  this  armchair  I  '11 
tilt  up  my  heels. 

He  's  gone,  and  for  what  ?  For  a  tremor  from  a  waist  like 
a  teetotum  spun ; 

For  a  rosebud  that 's  crumpled  by  many  before  it  is  gath 
ered  by  one. 

Is  there  naught  in  the  halo  of  youth  but  the  glow  of  a 
passionate  race  — 

'Midst  the  cheers  and  applause  of  a  crowd  —  to  the  goal  of 
a  beautiful  face  ? 

A  race  that  is  not  to  the  swift,  a  prize  that  no  merits  en 
force, 

But  is  won  by  some  faineant  youth,  who  shall  simply  walk 
over  the  course  ? 

Poor  boy !  shall  I  shock  his  conceit  ?  When  he  talks  of 
her  cheek's  loveliness, 

Shall  I  say  't  was  the  air  of  the  room,  and  was  due  to  car 
bonic  excess  ? 

That  when  waltzing  she  drooped  on  his  breast,  and  the 
veins  of  her  eyelids  grew  dim, 

T  was  oxygen's  absence  she  felt,  but  never  the  presence  of 
him? 


250  MISCELLANEOUS 

Shall  I  tell  him  first  love  is  a  fraud,  a  weakling  that's 

strangled  in  birth, 
Recalled  with   perfunctory  tears,  but   lost  in  unsanctified 

mirth  ? 
Or  shall  I  go  bid  him  believe  in  all  womankind's  charm, 

and  forget 
In  the  light  ringing  laugh  of  the  world  the  rattlesnake's 

gay  castanet  ? 

Shall  I  tear  out  a  leaf  from  my  heart,  from  that  book  that 

forever  is  shut 
On  the  past  ?    Shall  I  speak  of  my  first  love  —  Augusta  — 

my  Lalage  ?     But 
I  forget.     Was  it  really  Augusta  ?     No.     'T  was  Lucy  ! 

No.     Mary!     No.     Di! 
Never  mind !  they  were  all  first  and  faithless,  and  yet  — 

I  've  forgotten  just  why. 

No,  no !     Let  him   dream  on  and    ever.     Alas  !  he  will 

waken  too  soon ; 
And  it  does  n't  look  well  for  October  to  always  be  preaching 

at  June. 
Poor  boy  !     All  his  fond  foolish  trophies  pinned  yonder  — 

a  bow  from  her  hair, 
A  few  billets-doux,  invitations,  and  —  what 's  this  ?     My 

name,  I  declare  ! 

Humph  !     "  You  '11  come,  for  I  've  got  you  a  prize,  with 

beauty  and  money  no  end : 
You  know  her,  I  think ;  't  was  on  dit  she  once  was  engaged 

to  your  friend ; 
But  she  says  that 's  all  over."     Ah,  is  it  ?     Sweet  Ethel ! 

incomparable  maid ! 
Or  —  what  if  the  thing  were  a  trick  ?  —  this  letter  so  freely 

displayed !  — 


TELEMACHUS   VERSUS   MENTOR  251 

My  opportune  presence  !     No  !    nonsense  !     Will  nobody 

answer  the  bell  ? 
Call  a  cab  !     Half  past  ten.     Not  too  late  yet.     Oh,  Ethel ! 

Why  don't  you  go  ?     Well  ? 
"  Master  said  you  would  wait "  —     Hang  your  master ! 

"  Have  I  ever  a  message  to  send  ?  " 
Yes,  tell  him  I  've  gone  to  the  German  to  dance  with  the 

friend  of  his  friend. 


WHAT  THE   WOLF    KEALLY   SAID  TO   LITTLE 
EED   RIDING-HOOD 

WONDERING  maiden,  so  puzzled  and  fair, 
Why  dost  thou  murmur  and  ponder  and  stare  ? 
"  Why  are  my  eyelids  so  open  and  wild  ?  " 
Only  the  better  to  see  with,  my  child  ! 
Only  the  better  and  clearer  to  view 
Cheeks  that  are  rosy  and  eyes  that  are  blue. 

Dost  thou  still  wonder,  and  ask  why  these  arms 
Fill  thy  soft  bosom  with  tender  alarms, 
Swaying  so  wickedly  ?     Are  they  misplaced 
Clasping  or  shielding  some  delicate  waist  ? 
Hands  whose  coarse  sinews  may  fill  you  with  fear 
Only  the  better  protect  you,  my  dear ! 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  when  in  the  street, 
Why  do  I  press  your  small  hand  when  we  meet  ? 
Why,  when  you  timidly  offered  your  cheek, 
Why  did  I  sigh,  and  why  did  n't  I  speak  ? 
Why,  well :  you  see  —  if  the  truth  must  appear  — 
I  ?m  not  your  grandmother,  Riding-Hood,  dear  1 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER 

u  So  she  7s  here,  your  unknown  Dulcinea,  the  lady  you 

met  on  the  train, 
And  you  really  believe  she  would  know  you  if  you  were  to 

meet  her  again  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  "  she  would  know  me ;  there  never 

was  womankind  yet 
Forgot  the  effect  she  inspired.     She  excuses,  hut  does  not 

forget." 

"  Then  you  told  her  your  love  ?  "  asked  the  elder.     The 

younger  looked  up  with  a  smile : 
"  I  sat  by  her  side  half  an  hour  —  what  else  was  I  doing 

the  while  ? 

"  What,  sit  by  the  side  of  a  woman  as  fair  as  the  sun  in  the 

sky, 

And  look  somewhere  else  lest  the  dazzle  flash  back  from 
your  own  to  her  eye  ? 

"  No,  I  hold  that  the  speech  of  the  tongue  be  as  frank  and 

as  bold  as  the  look, 
And  I  held  up  herself  to  herself,  —  that  was  more  than  she 

got  from  her  book." 

"  Young  blood !  "  laughed  the  elder  ;  "  no  doubt  you  are 

voicing  the  mode  of  To-Day  : 
But  then  we  old  fogies  at  least  gave  the  lady  some  chance 

for  delay. 


254  MISCELLANEOUS 

"  There  ?s  my  wife  (you  must  know),  —  we  first  met  on 

the  journey  from  Florence  to  Rome  : 
It  took  me  three  weeks  to  discover  who  was  she  and  where 

was  her  home ; 

"  Three  more  to  be  duly  presented ;  three  more  ere  I  saw 

her  again ; 
And  a  year  ere  my  romance  began  where  yours  ended  that 

day  on  the  train." 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  style  of  the  stage-coach ;  we  travel  to-day 

by  express ; 
Forty  miles  to  the  hour,"  he  answered,  "  won't  admit  of  a 

passion  that 's  less." 

"  But  what  if  you  make  a  mistake  ?  "  quoth  the  elder.  The 
younger  half  sighed. 

"What  happens  when  signals  are  wrong  or  switches  mis 
placed  ?  "  he  replied. 

"Very  well,  I  must  bow  to  your  wisdom,"  the  elder  re 
turned,  "  but  submit 

Your  chances  of  winning  this  woman  your  boldness  has 
bettered  no  whit. 

"  Why,  you  do  not  at  best  know  her  name.     And  what  if  I 

try  your  ideal 
With  something,  if  not  quite  so  fair,  at  least  more  en  regie 

and  real  ? 

"  Let  me  find  you  a  partner.     Nay,  come,  I  insist  —  you 

shall  follow  —  this  way. 
My  dear,  will  you  not  add  your  grace  to  entreat  Mr.  Rapid 

to  stay? 


HALF  AN  HOUE  BEFORE   SUPPER  255 

"  My  wife,  Mr.  Kapid  —    Eh,  what !     Why,  he  >s  gone  — 

yet  he  said  he  would  come. 
How  rude  !     I  don't  wonder,  my  dear,  you  are  properly 

crimson  and  dumb  ! " 


WHAT   THE   BULLET   SANG 

O  JOY  of  creation 
To  be  ! 

0  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free  J 
Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 

1  shall  find  my  love,  —  the  one 

Born  for  me ! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  overthrown ; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  godlike  front  and  grace ; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space, 

All  my  own ! 

It  is  he  —  0  my  love  ! 

So  bold ! 
It  is  I  —  all  thy  love 

Foretold  I 

It  is  I.  0  love  !  what  bliss  ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart !  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold  ? 


THE   OLD   CAMP-FIRE 

Now  shift  the  blanket  pad  before  your  saddle  back  you 

fling, 
And  draw  your  cinch  up  tighter  till  the  sweat  drops  from 

the  ring : 

We  've  a  dozen  miles  to  cover  ere  we  reach  the  next  divide. 
Our  limbs  are  stiffer  now  than  when  we  first  set  out  to  ride, 
And  worse,  the  horses  know  it,  and  feel  the  leg-grip  tire, 
Since  in  the  days  when,  long  ago,  we  sought  the  old  camp-fire. 

Yes,  twenty  years !     Lord !   how   we  7d  scent  its   incense 

down  the  trail, 
Through  balm  of  bay  and  spice  of  spruce,  when  eye  and  ear 

would  fail, 
And  worn  and  faint  from  useless  quest  we  crept,  like  this, 

to  rest, 
Or,  flushed  with  luck  and  youthful  hope,  we  rode,  like  this, 

abreast. 
Ay !  straighten  up,  old  friend,  and  let  the  mustang  think 

he  's  nigher, 
Through  looser  rein  and  stirrup  strain,  the  welcome  old 

camp-fire. 

You  know  the  shout  that  would  ring  out  before  us  down 

the  glade, 
And  start  the  blue  jays  like  a  flight  of  arrows  through  the 

shade, 
And  sift  the  thin  pine  needles  down  like  slanting,  shining 

rain, 
And  send  the  squirrels  scampering  back  to  their  holes  again, 


258  MISCELLANEOUS 

Until  we  saw,  blue-veiled  and  dim,  or  leaping  like  desire, 
That  flame  of  twenty  years  ago,  which  lit  the  old  camp- 
fire. 

And   then   that  rest    on  Nature's  breast,   when  talk  had 

dropped,  and  slow 
The  night  wind  went  from  tree  to  tree  with  challenge  soft 

and  low ! 

We  lay  on  lazy  elbows  propped,  or  stood  to  stir  the  flame, 
Till  up  the  soaring  redwood's  shaft  our  shadows  danced  and 

came, 

As  if  to  draw  us  with  the  sparks,  high  o'er  its  unseen  spire, 
To  the  five  stars  that  kept  their  ward  above  the  old  camp- 
fire,— 

Those  picket  stars  whose  tranquil  watch  half  soothed,  half 

shamed  our  sleep. 
What  recked  we  then  what  beasts  or  men  around  might 

lurk  or  creep  ? 

We  lay  and  heard  with  listless  ears  the  far-off  panther's  cry, 
The  near  coyote's  snarling  snap,  the  grizzly's  deep-drawn 

sigh, 
The  brown  bear's  blundering  human  tread,  the  gray  wolves' 

yelping  choir 
Beyond  the  magic  circle  drawn  around  the  old  camp-fire. 

And  then  that  morn  !     Was  ever  morn  so  filled  with  all 

things  new  ? 
The  light  that  fell  through  long  brown  aisles  from  out  the 

kindling  blue, 
The  creak  and  yawn  of  stretching  boughs,  the  jay-bird's 

early  call, 

The  rat-tat-tat  of  woodpecker  that  waked  the  woodland  hall, 
The  fainter  stir  of  lower  life  in  fern  and  brake  and  brier, 
Till  flashing  leaped  the  torch  of  Day  from  last  night's  old 

camp-fire ! 


THE   OLD   CAMP-FIEE  259 


Well,  well !  we  '11  see  it  once  again ;  we  should  be  near  it 

now  ; 
It 's  scarce  a  mile  to  where  the  trail  strikes  off  to  skirt  the 

slough, 
And  then  the  dip  to  Indian  Spring,  the  wooded  rise,  and  — 

strange ! 
Yet  here  should  stand  the  blasted  pine  that  marked  our 

farther  range  ; 
And  here  —  what  's  this  ?     A  ragged  swale   of   ruts  and 

stumps  and  mire ! 
Sure  this  is  not  the  sacred  grove  that  hid  the  old  camp-fire ! 

Yet    here  's    the  "  blaze "   I   cut  myself,   and  there  '&  the 

stumbling  ledge, 
With  quartz  "  outcrop  "  that  lay  atop,  now  leveled  to  its 

edge, 
And  mounds  of  moss-grown  stumps  beside  the  woodman's 

rotting  chips, 

And  gashes  in  the  hillside,  that  gape  with  dumb  red  lips. 
And  yet  above  the  shattered  wreck  and  ruin,  curling  higher  — 
Ah  yes !  —  still  lifts  the  smoke  that  marked  the  welcome 

old  camp-fire  ! 

Perhaps  some  friend  of  twenty  years  still  lingers  there  to 

raise 

To  weary  hearts  and  tired  eyes  that  beacon  of  old  days. 
Perhaps  —  but  stay  ;  't  is  gone  !  and  yet  once  more  it  lifts 

as  though 
To  meet  our  tardy  blundering  steps,  and  seems  to  move,  and 

lo! 
Whirls  by  us  in  a  rush  of  sound,  —  the  vanished  funeral 

pyre 
Of  hopes  and  fears  that  twenty  years  burned  in  the  old 

camp-fire  ! 


260  MISCELLANEOUS 

For  see,  beyond  the  prospect  spreads,  with  chimney,  spire, 
and  roof,  — 

Two  iron  bands  across  the  trail  clank  to  our  mustang's  hoof  j 

Above  them  leap  two  blackened  threads  from  limb-lopped 
tree  to  tree, 

To  where  the  whitewashed  station  speeds  its  message  to  the 
sea. 

Kein  in  !  Rein  in !  The  quest  is  o'er.  The  goal  of  our 
desire 

Is  but  the  train  whose  track  has  lain  across  the  old  camp- 
fire! 


THE   STATION-MASTER    OF   LONE   PEAIKIE 

AN  empty  bench,  a  sky  of  grayest  etching, 

A  bare,  bleak  shed  in  blackest  silhouette, 

Twelve  years  of  platform,  and  before  them  stretching 

Twelve  miles  of  prairie  glimmering  through  the  wet. 

North,  south,  east,  west,  —  the  same  dull  gray  persistency 
The  tattered  vapors  of  a  vanished  train, 
The  narrowing  rails  that  meet  to  pierce  the  distance, 
Or  break  the  columns  of  the  far-off  rain. 

Naught  but  myself  ;  nor  form  nor  figure  breaking 
The  long  hushed  level  and  stark  shining  waste  ,• 
Nothing  that  moves  to  fill  the  vision  aching, 
When  the  last  shadow  fled  in  sullen  haste. 

Nothing  beyond.     Ah  yes !     From  out  the  station 
A  stiff,  gaunt  figure  thrown  against  the  sky, 
Beckoning  me  with  some  wooden  salutation 
Caught  from  his  signals  as  the  train  flashed  by ; 

Yielding  me  place  beside  him  with  dumb  gesture 
Born  of  that  reticence  of  sky  and  air. 
We  sit  apart,  yet  wrapped  in  that  one  vesture 
Of  silence,  sadness,  and  unspoken  care  : 

Each  following  his  own  thought,  —  around  us  darkening 
The  rain- washed  boundaries  and  stretching  track,  — 
Each  following  those  dim  parallels  and  hearkening 
For  long-lost  voices  that  will  not  come  back. 


262  MISCELLANEOUS 

Until,  unasked,  —  I  knew  not  why  or  wherefore,  — 
He  yielded,  bit  by  bit,  his  dreary  past, 
Like  gathered  clouds  that  seemed  to  thicken  there  for 
Some  dull  down-dropping  of  their  care  at  last. 

Long  had  he  lived  there.     As  a  boy  had  started 
From  the  stacked  corn  the  Indian's  painted  face ; 
Heard  the  wolves'  howl  the  wearying  waste  that  parted 
His  father's  hut  from  the  last  camping-place. 

Nature  had  mocked  him  :   thrice  had  claimed  the  reaping, 
With  scythe  of  fire,  of  lands  she  once  had  sown ; 
Sent  the  tornado,  round  his  hearthstone  heaping 
Eafters,  dead  faces  that  were  like  his  own. 

Then  came  the  War  Time.     When  its  shadow  beckoned 

He  had  walked  dumbly  where  the  flag  had  led 

Through  swamp  and  fen,  —  unknown,  unpraised,  unreck 

oned,  — 
To  famine,  fever,  and  a  prison  bed. 

Till  the  storm  passed,  and  the  slow  tide  returning 
Cast  him,  a  wreck,  beneath  his  native  sky  ; 
Here,  at  his  watch,  gave  him  the  chance  of  earning 
Scant  means  to  live  —  who  won  the  right  to  die. 

All  this  I  heard  —  or  seemed  to  hear  —  half  blending 
With  the  low  murmur  of  the  coming  breeze, 
The  call  of  some  lost  bird,  and  the  unending 
And  tireless  sobbing  of  those  grassy  seas. 

Until  at  last  the  spell  of  desolation 

Broke  with  a  trembling  star  and  far-off  cry. 

The  coming  train  !     I  glanced  around  the  station. 

All  was  as  empty  as  the  upper  sky ! 


THE   STATION-MASTER   OF  LONE   PRAIRIE  263 

Naught  but  myself ;  nor  form  nor  figure  waking 
The  long  hushed  level  and  stark  shining  waste  ; 
Naught  but  myself,  that  cry,  and  the  dull  shaking 
Of  wheel  and  axle,  stopped  in  breathless  haste  ! 

"Now,   then  —  look    sharp!      Eh,   what?     The    Station- 
Master  ? 

Thar 's  none  !     We  stopped  here  of  our  own  accord. 
The  man  got  killed  in  that  down-train  disaster 
This  time  last  evening.     Eight  there  !     All  aboard  !  " 


THE  MISSION   BELLS   OF  MONTEBEY 

O  BELLS  that  rang,  0  bells  that  sang 

Above  the  martyrs7  wilderness, 

Till  from  that  reddened  coast-line  sprang 

The  Gospel  seed  to  cheer  and  bless, 

What  are  your  garnered  sheaves  to-day  ? 

0  Mission  bells  !     Eleison  bells ! 

0  Mission  bells  of  Monterey  ! 

0  bells  that  crash,  0  bells  that  clash 
Above  the  chimney-crowded  plain, 
On  wall  and  tower  your  voices  dash, 
But  never  with  the  old  refrain ; 
In  mart  and  temple  gone  astray ! 
Ye  dangle  bells  !     Ye  jangle  bells ! 
Ye  wrangle  bells  of  Monterey  ! 

O  bells  that  die,  so  far,  so  nigh, 
Come  back  once  more  across  the  sea ; 
Not  with  the  zealot's  furious  cry, 
Not  with  the  creed's  austerity ; 
Come  with  His  love  alone  to  stay, 
0  Mission  bells !     Eleison  bells  ! 
O  Mission  bells  of  Monterey ! 

NOTE.    This  poem  was  set  to  music  by  Monsieur  Charles  Gounod, 


"CKOTALUS" 
(RATTLESNAKE  BAR,  SIERRAS) 

No  life  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sky ; 
The  sunbeams,  broken  silently, 
On  the  bared  rocks  around  me  lie,  — 

Cold  rocks  with  half-warmed  lichens  scarred^ 
And  scales  of  moss ;   and  scarce  a  yard 
Away,  one  long  strip,  yellow-barred. 

Lost  in  a  cleft !     'T  is  but  a  stride 
To  reach  it,  thrust  its  roots  aside, 
And  lift  it  on  thy  stick  astride ! 

Yet  stay  !  That  moment  is  thy  grace ! 
For  round  thee,  thrilling  air  and  space, 
A  chattering  terror  fills  the  place ! 

A  sound  as  of  dry  bones  that  stir 
In  the  Dead  Valley  !  By  yon  fir 
The  locust  stops  its  noonday  whir ! 

The  wild  bird  hears ;  smote  with  the  sound, 

As  if  by  bullet  bought  to  ground, 

On  broken  wing,  dips,  wheeling  round ! 

The  hare,  transfixed,  with  trembling  lip, 
Halts,  breathless,  on  pulsating  hip, 
And  palsied  tread,  and  heels  that  slip. 


266  MISCELLANEOUS 

• 

Enough,  old  friend  !  —  ?t  is  thou.     Forget 
My  heedless  foot,  nor  longer  fret 
The  peace  with  thy  grim  Castanet ! 

I  know  thee  !     Yes !     Thou  mayst  forego 
That  lifted  crest ;  the  measured  blow 
Beyond  which  thy  pride  scorns  to  go, 

Or  yet  retract !     For  me  no  spell 

Lights  those  slit  orbs,  where,  some  think,  dwell 

Machicolated  fires  of  hell ! 

I  only  know  thee  humble,  bold, 

Haughty,  with  miseries  untold, 

And  the  old  Curse  that  left  thee  cold, 

And  drove  thee  ever  to  the  sun, 

On  blistering  rocks ;  nor  made  thee  shun 

Our  cabin's  hearth,  when  day  was  done, 

And  the  spent  ashes  warmed  thee  best ; 
We  knew  thee,  —  silent,  joyless  guest 
Of  our  rude  ingle.     E'en  thy  quest 

Of  the  rare  milk-bowl  seemed  to  be 
Naught  but  a  brother's  poverty, 
And  Spartan  taste  that  kept  thee  free 

From  lust  and  rapine.     Thou !  whose  fame 
Searchest  the  grass  with  tongue  of  flame, 
Making  all  creatures  seem  thy  game ; 

When  the  whole  woods  before  thee  run, 
Asked  but  —  when  all  was  said  and  done  — 
To  lie,  untrodden,  in  the  sun !  - 


ON   WILLIAM   FKANCIS   BARTLETT 

DEAD    AT    PITTSFIELD,    MASS.,    1876 

O  POOR  Romancer  —  thou  whose  printed  page, 
Filled  with  rude  speech  and  ruder  forms  of  strife, 
Was  given  to  heroes  in  whose  vulgar  rage 
No  trace  appears  of  gentler  ways  and  life !  — 

Thou  who  wast  wont  of  commoner  clay  to  build . 
Some  rough  Achilles  or  some  Ajax  tall ; 
Thou  whose  free  brush  too  oft  was  wont  to  gild 
Some  single  virtue  till  it  dazzled  all ;  — 

What  right  hast  thou  beside  this  laureled  bier 
Whereon  all  manhood  lies  —  whereon  the  wreath 
Of  Harvard  rests,  the  civic  crown,  and  here 
The  starry  flag,  and  sword  and  jeweled  sheath  ? 

Seest  thou  these  hatchments  ?     Knowest  thou  this  blood 
Nourished  the  heroes  of  Colonial  days  — 
Sent  to  the  dim  and  savage-haunted  wood 
Those  sad-eyed  Puritans  with  hymns  of  praise  ? 

Look  round  thee !     Everywhere  is  classic  ground. 
There  Greylock  rears.     Beside  yon  silver  "  Bowl " 
Great  Hawthorne  dwelt,  and  in  its  mirror  found 
Those  quaint,  strange  shapes  that  filled  his  poet's  soul. 

Still  silent,  Stranger  ?     Thou  who  now  and  then 
Touched  the  too  credulous  ear  with  pathos,  canst  not  speak  ? 


268  MISCELLANEOUS 

Hast  lost  thy  ready  skill  of  tongue  and  pen  ? 
What,  Jester !     Tears  upon  that  painted  cheek  ? 

Pardon,  good  friends  !     I  am  not  here  to  mar 

His  laureled  wreaths  with  this  poor  tinseled  crown  — ' 

This  man  who  taught  me  how  't  was  better  far 

To  be  the  poem  than  to  write  it  down. 

I  bring  no  lesson.     Well  have  others  preached 
This  sword  that  dealt  full  many  a  gallant  blow ; 
I  come  once  more  to  touch  the  hand  that  reached 
Its  knightly  gauntlet  to  the  vanquished  foe. 

0  pale  Aristocrat,  that  liest  there, 
So  cold,  so  silent !     Could  st  thou  not  in  grace 
Have  borne  with  us  still  longer,  and  so  spare 
The  scorn  we  see  in  that  proud,  placid  face  ? 

"  Hail  and  farewell !  "     So  the  proud  Roman  cried 
O'er  his  dead  hero.      "  Hail,"  but  not  "  farewell." 
With  each  high  thought  thou  walkest  side  by  side ; 
We  feel  thee,  touch  thee,  know  who  wrought  the  spell ! 


THE   BIKDS   OF   CIKENCESTER 

DID  I  ever  tell  you,  my  dears,  the  way 

That  the  birds  of  Cisseter  —  "  Cisseter !  "  eh  ? 

Well  "  Ciren-cester  "  —  one  ought  to  say, 

From  "  Castra,"  or  "  Caster," 

As  your  Latin  master 

Will  further  explain  to  you  some  day ; 

Though  even  the  wisest  err, 

And  Shakespeare  writes  "  Ci-cester," 

While  every  visitor 

Who  does  n't  say  "  Cissiter  " 

Is  in  "  Ciren-cester  "  considered  astray. 

A  hundred  miles  from  London  town  — 

Where  the  river  goes  curving  and  broadening  down 

From  tree-top  to  spire,  and  spire  to  mast, 

Till  it  tumbles  outright  in  the  Channel  at  last  — 

A  hundred  miles  from  that  flat  foreshore 

That  the  Danes  and  the  Northmen  haunt  no  more  — 

There 's  a  little  cup  in  the  Cotswold  hills 

Which  a  spring  in  a  meadow  bubbles  and  fills, 

Spanned  by  a  heron's  wing  —  crossed  by  a  stride  — 

Calm  and  untroubled  by  dreams  of  pride, 

Guiltless  of  Fame  or  ambition's  aims, 

That  is  the  source  of  the  lordly  Thames ! 

Eemark  here  again  that  custom  contemns 

Both  "  Tames  "  and  Thames  —  you  must  say  "  Terns  ! 

But  why  ?  no  matter !  —  from  them  you  can  see 

Cirencester's  tall  spires  loom  up  o'er  the  lea. 


270  MISCELLANEOUS 

A.  D.  Five  Hundred  and  Fifty-two, 
The  Saxon  invaders  —  a  terrible  crew  — 
Had  forced  the  lines  of  the  Britons  through; 
And  Cirencester,  half  mud  and  thatch, 
Dry  and  crisp  as  a  tinder  match, 
Was  fiercely  beleaguered  by  foes,  who  'd  catch 
At  any  device  that  could  harry  and  rout 
The  folk  that  so  boldly  were  holding  out. 

For  the  streets  of  the  town  —  as  you  '11  see  to-day  — 

Were  twisted  and  curved  in  a  curious  way 

That  kept  the  invaders  still  at  bay ; 

And  the  longest  bolt  that  a  Saxon  drew 

Was  stopped  ere  a  dozen  of  yards  it  flew, 

By  a  turn  in  the  street,  and  a  law  so  true 

That  even  these  robbers  —  of  all  laws  scorners !  — 

Knew  you  could  n't  shoot  arrows  around  street  corners. 

So  they  sat  them  down  on  a  little  knoll, 

And  each  man  scratched  his  Saxon  poll, 

And  stared  at  the  sky,  where,  clear  and  high, 

The  birds  of  that  summer  went  singing  by, 

As  if,  in  his  glee,  each  motley  jester 

Were  mocking  the  foes  of  Cirencester, 

Till  the  jeering  crow  and  the  saucy  linnet 

Seemed  all  to  be  saying  :   "  Ah  !  you  're  not  in  it !  " 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  mavis  flew, 
And  the  "  ouzel-cock  so  black  of  hue  ;  " 
And  the  "  throstle,"  with  his  "  note  so  true  " 
(You  remember  what  Shakespeare  says  —  he  knew)  ; 
And  the  soaring  lark,  that  kept  dropping  through 
Like  a  bucket  spilling  in  wells  of  blue ; 
And  the  merlin  —  seen  on  heraldic  panes  — 
With  legs  as  vague  as  the  Queen  of  Spain's  j 


THE   BIRDS   OF  CIRENCESTER  271 

And  the  dashing  swift  that  would  ricochet 
From  the  tufts  of  grasses  before  them,  yet  — 
Like  bold  Antaeus  —  would  each  time  bring 
New  life  from  the  earth,  barely  touched  by  his  wing ; 
And  the  swallow  and  martlet  that  always  knew 
The  straightest  way  home.     Here  a  Saxon  churl  drew 
His   breath  —  tapped    his     forehead  —  an   idea   had   got 
through ! 

So  they  brought  them  some  nets,  which  straightway  they 

filled 

With  the  swallows  and  martlets  —  the  sweet  birds  who  build 
In  the  houses  of  man  —  all  that  innocent  guild 
Who  sing  at  their  labor  on  eaves  and  in  thatch  — 
And  they  stuck  on  their  feathers  a  rude  lighted  match 
Made  of  resin  and  tow.     Then  they  let  them  all  go 
To  be  free !     As  a  child-like  diversion  ?     Ah,  no  ! 
To  work  Cirencester's  red  ruin  and  woe. 

For  straight  to  each  nest  they  flew,  in  wild  quest 

Of  their  homes  and  their  fledgelings  —  that  they  loved  the 

best; 

And  straighter  than  arrow  of  Saxon  e'er  sped 
They  shot  o'er  the  curving  streets,  high  overhead, 
Bringing  fire  and  terror  to  roof  tree  and  bed, 
Till  the  town  broke  in  flame,  wherever  they  came, 
To  the  Briton's  red  ruin  —  the  Saxon's  red  shame  ! 

Yet  they  're  all  gone  together  !     To-day  you  '11  dig  up 
From  "  mound  "  or  from  "  barrow  "  some  arrow  or  cup. 
Their  fame  is  forgotten  —  their  story  is  ended  — 
'Neath  the  feet  of  the  race  they  have  mixed  with  and 

blended. 

But  the  birds  are  unchanged  —  the  ouzel-cock  sings, 
Still  gold  on  his  crest  and  still  black  on  his  wings ; 


272  MISCELLANEOUS 

And  the  lark  chants  on  high,  as  he  mounts  to  the  sky, 
Still  brown  in  his  coat  and  still  dim  in  his  eye ; 
While  the  swallow  or  martlet  is  still  a  free  nester 
I    In  the  eaves  and  the  roofs  of  thrice-built  Cirencester. 


LINES  TO  A  PORTRAIT,  BY  A  SUPERIOR 
PERSON 

WHEN  I  bought  you  for  a  song, 
Years  ago  —  Lord  knows  how  long !  — 
I  was  struck  —  I  may  be  wrong  — 

By  your  features, 
And  —  a  something  in  your  air 
That  I  could  n't  quite  compare 
To  my  other  plain  or  fair 

Fellow  creatures. 

In  your  simple,  oval  frame 

You  were  not  well  known  to  fame, 

But  to  me  —  7t  was  all  the  same  — 

Whoe'er  drew  you ; 
For  your  face  I  can't  forget, 
Though  I  oftentimes  regret 
That,  somehow,  I  never  yet 

Saw  quite  through  you. 

Yet  each  morning,  when  I  rise, 
I  go  first  to  greet  your  eyes; 
And,  in  turn,  you  scrutinize 

My  presentment. 

And  when  shades  of  evening  fall, 
As  you  hang  upon  my  wall, 
You  're  the  last  thing  I  recall 

With  contentment. 


274  MISCELLANEOUS 

It  is  weakness,  yet  I  know 
That  I  never  turned  to  go 
Anywhere,  for  weal  or  woe, 

But  I  lingered 

For  one  parting,  thrilling  flash 
From  your  eyes,  to  give  that  dash 
To  the  curl  of  my  mustache, 

That  I  fingered. 

If  to  some  you  may  seem  plain, 
And  when  people  glance  again 
Where  you  hang,  their  lips  refrain 

From  confession ; 
Yet  they  turn  in  stealth  aside, 
And  I  note,  they  try  to  hide 
How  much  they  are  satisfied 

In  expression. 

Other  faces  I  have  seen ; 

Other  forms  have  come  between ; 

Other  things  I  have,  I  ween, 

Done  and  dared  for  ! 
But  our  ties  they  cannot  sever, 
And,  though  /  should  say  it  never, 
You  Jre  the  only  one  I  ever 

Really  cared  for ! 

And  you  '11  still  be  hanging  there 
When  we  're  both  the  worse  for  wear, 
And  the  silver 's  on  my  hair 

And  off  your  backing ; 
Yet  my  faith  shall  never  pass 
In  my  dear  old  shaving-glass, 
Till  my  face  and  yours,  alas! 

Both  are  lacking  ! 


HEE  LAST  LETTER 

BEING    A    REPLY    TO    "  HIS    ANSWER 


JUNE  4th  !  Do  you  know  what  that  date  means  ? 

June  4th  !     By  this  air  and  these  pines ! 
Well,  —  only  you  know  how  I  hate  scenes,  — 

These  might  be  my  very  last  lines ! 
For  perhaps,  sir,  you  '11  kindly  remember  — 

If  some  other  things  you  've  forgot  — 
That  you  last  wrote  the  4th  of  December,  — 

Just  six  months  ago  !  —  from  this  spot ; 

From  this  spot,  that  you  said  was  "  the  fairest 

For  once  being  held  in  my  thought." 
Now,  really  I  call  that  the  barest 

Of  —  well,  I  won't  say  what  I  ought! 
For  here  /  am  back  from  my  "  riches," 

My  "  triumphs,"  my  "  tours,"  and  all  that*, 
And  you  're  not  to  be  found  in  the  ditches 

Or  temples  of  Poverty  Flat ! 

From  Paris  we  went  for  the  season 

To  London,  when  pa  wired,  "  Stop." 
Mama  says  "  his  health  "  was  the  reason. 

(I  've  heard  that  some  things  took  a  "  drop.") 
But  she  said  if  my  patience  I  'd  summon 

I  could  go  back  with  him  to  the  Flat  — 
Perhaps  I  was  thinking  of  some  one 

Who  of  me  —  well  —  was  not  thinking  that ! 


276  MISCELLANEOUS 

Of  course  you  will  say  that  I  "  never 

Replied  to  the  letter  you  wrote." 
That  is  just  like  a  man  !    But,  however, 

I  read  it  —  or  how  could  I  quote  ? 
And  as  to  the  stories  you  've  heard  (No, 

Don't  tell  me  you  have  n't  —  I  know !), 
You  '11  not  believe  one  blessed  word,  Joe ; 

But  just  whence  they  came,  let  them  go  ! 

And  they  came  from  Sade  Lotski  of  Yolo, 

Whose  father  sold  clothes  on  the  Bar  — 
You  called  him  Job-lotski,  you  know,  Joe, 

And  the  boys  said  her  value  was  par. 
Well,  we  met  her  in  Paris  —  just  flaring 

With  diamonds,  and  lost  in  a  hat ! 
And  she  asked  me  "  How  Joseph  was  faring 

In  his  love-suit  on  Poverty  Flat !  " 

She  thought  it  would  shame  me !     I  met  her 

With  a  look,  Joe,  that  made  her  eyes  drop ; 
And  I  said  that  your  "  love-suit  fared  better 

Than  any  suit  out  of  their  shop !  " 
And  I  did  n't  blush  then  —  as  I  'm  doing 

To  find  myself  here,  all  alone, 
And  left,  Joe,  to  do  all  the  "  sueing  " 

To  a  lover  that 's  certainly  flown. 

In  this  brand-new  hotel,  called  "  The  Lily  " 

(I  wonder  who  gave  it  that  name  ?), 
I  really  am  feeling  quite  silly, 

To  think  I  was  once  called  the  same ; 
And  I  stare  from  its  windows,  and  fancy 

I  'm  labeled  to  each  passer-by. 
Ah !  gone  is  the  old  necromancy, 

For  nothing  seems  right  to  my  eye. 


HER  LAST  LETTER  277 

On  that  hill  there  are  stores  that  I  knew  not ; 

There  Js  a  street  —  where  I  once  lost  my  way ; 
And  the  copse  where  you  once  tied  my  shoe-knot 

Is  shamelessly  open  as  day ! 
And  that  bank  by  the  spring  —  I  once  drank  there, 

And  you  called  the  place  Eden,  you  know ; 
Now  I  ?m  banished  like  Eve  —  though  the  bank  there 

Is  belonging  to  "  Adams  and  Co." 

There  's  the  rustle  of  silk  on  the  sidewalk ; 

Just  now  there  passed  by  a  tall  hat ; 
But  there 's  gloom  in  this  "  boom  "  and  this  wild  talk 

Of  the  "  future  "  of  Poverty  Flat. 
There 's  a  decorous  chill  in  the  air,  Joe, 

Where  once  we  were  simple  and  free ; 
And  I  hear  they  've  been  making  a  mayor,  Joe, 

Of  the  man  who  shot  Sandy  McGee. 

But  there 's  still  the  "  lap,  lap  "  of  the  river ; 

There  ?s  the  song  of  the  pines,  deep  and  low. 
(How  my  longing  for  them  made  me  quiver 

In  the  park  that  they  call  Fontainebleau !) 
There  's  the  snow-peak  that  looked  on  our  dances, 

And  blushed  when  the  morning  said,  "  Go  !  " 
There  Js  a  lot  that  remains  which  one  fancies  — 

But  somehow  there 's  never  a  Joe  ! 

Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  is  better, 

For  you  might  have  been  changed  like  the  rest ; 
Though  it 's  strange  that  I  'm  trusting  this  letter 

To  papa,  just  to  have  it  addressed. 
He  thinks  he  may  find  you,  and  really . 

Seems  kinder  now  I  'm  all  alone. 
You  might  have  been  here,  Joe,  if  merely 

To  look  what  I  >m  willing  to  own. 


278  MISCELLANEOUS 

Well,  well !  that  's  all  past ;  so  good-night,  Joe  ; 

Good-night  to  the  river  and  Flat ; 
Good-night  to  what 's  wrong  and  what  *s  right,  Joe ; 

Good-night  to  the  past,  and  all  that  — 
To  Harrison's  barn,  and  its  dancers  ; 

To  the  moon,  and  the  white  peak  of  snow ; 
And  good-night  to  the  canon  that  answers 

My  "  Joe  !  "  with  its  echo  of  "  No  !  " 

p.  s. 
I  've  just  got  your  note.     You  deceiver ! 

How  dared  you  —  how  could  you  ?     Oh,  Joe  ! 
To  think  I  've  been  kept  a  believer 

In  things  that  were  six  months  ago ! 
And  it 's  you  ?ve  built  this  house,  and  the  bank,  too, 

And  the  mills,  and  the  stores,  and  all  that ! 
And  for  everything  changed  I  must  thank  you, 

Who  have  "struck  it"  on  Poverty  Flat! 

How  dared  you  get  rich  —  you  great  stupid  !  — 

Like  papa,  and  some  men  that  I  know, 
Instead  of  just  trusting  to  Cupid 

And  to  me  for  your  money  ?     Ah,  Joe  ! 
Just  to  think  you  sent  never  a  word,  dear, 

Till  you  wrote  to  papa  for  consent ! 
Now  I  know  why  they  had  me  transferred  here, 

And  "  the  health  of  papa  "  —  what  that  meant ! 

Now  I  know  why  they  call  this  "  The  Lily  ; " 

Why  the  man  who  shot  Sandy  McGee 
You  made  mayor  !  'T  was  because  —  oh,  you  silly  !  — 

He  once  "  went  down  the  middle  "  with  me ! 
I've  been  fooled  to  the  top  of  my  bent  here, 

So  come,  and  ask  pardon  —  you  know 
That  you  've  still  got  to  get  my  consent,  dear ! 

And  just  think  what  that  echo  said  —  Joe  ! 


V.   PARODIES 
BEFORE   THE   CURTAIN 

BEHIND  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize, 
A  trifle  shabby  in  the  upturned  blaze 
Of  flaring  gas  and  curious  eyes  that  gaze. 

The  stage,  methinks,  perhaps  is  none  too  wide, 

And  hardly  fit  for  royal  Richard's  stride, 

Or  Falstaff's  bulk,  or  Denmark's  youthful  pride. 

Ah,  well !   no  passion  walks  its  humble  boards ; 
O'er  it  no  king  nor  valiant  Hector  lords  : 
The  simplest  skill  is  all  its  space  affords. 

The  song  and  jest,  the  dance  and  trifling  play, 
The  local  hit  at  follies  of  the  day, 
The  trick  to  pass  an  idle  hour  away,  — 

For  these  no  trumpets  that  announce  the  Moor, 
No  blast  that  makes  the  hero's  welcome  sure,  — - 
A  single  fiddle  in  the  overture ! 


TO   THE   PLIOCENE   SKULL  1 

(A    GEOLOGICAL    ADDRESS) 

"  SPEAK,  0  man,  less  recent !     Fragmentary  fossil ! 
Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
Of  volcanic  tufa  ! 

"  Older  than  the  beasts,  the  oldest  Palseotherium ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  oldest  Cryptogam1* ; 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infantile  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 

"  Eo  —  Mio  —  Plio  —  whatsoe'er  the  '  cene  '  was 
That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  with  awe  and  wonder,  • 
Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches,  — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 

"  Or  has  the  professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that  ?s  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

u  Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Keared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and  distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 

i  See  page  327. 


TO   THE   PLIOCENE   SKULL  281 

"  Tell  us  of  that  scene,  —  the  dim  and  watery  woodland, 
Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect, 
Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with  tall  club- 
mosses, 
Lycopodiacea,  — 

"  When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 

"  Tell  us  of  thy  food,  —  those  half-marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell  and  Brachipods  au  naturel,  — 
Cuttlefish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

"  Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  earth's  creation, 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secret  of  thy  past  existence,  — 
Speak  !  thou  oldest  primate  !  " 

Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla, 
And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 
With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  express  juices  of  the  weed  nicotian, 
Came  these  hollow  accents,  blent  with  softer  murmurs 
Of  expectoration  : 

u  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was  busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft  in  Calaveras  County ; 
But  I  'd  take  it  kindly  if  you  'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri ! " 


THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.  COOKE 

(A    LEGEND    OF    THE    CLIFF    HOUSE,  SAN    FRANCISCO) 

WHERE  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Drives  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
That  the  Cliff  House  balconies 

Overlook  : 

There,  in  spite  of  rain  that  balked, 
With  his  sandals  duly  chalked, 
Once  upon  a  tight-rope  walked 

Mr.  Cooke. 

But  the  jester's  lightsome  mien, 
And  his  spangles  and  his  sheen, 
All  had  vanished  when  the  scene 

He  forsook. 

Yet  in  some  delusive  hope, 
In  some  vague  desire  to  cope, 
One  still  came  to  view  the  rope 

Walked  by  Cooked 


Amid  Beauty's  bright  array, 
On  that  strange  eventful  day, 
Partly  hidden  from  the  spray, 

In  a  nook, 

Stood  Florinda  Vere  de  Vere ; 
WTio,  with  wind-disheveled  hair, 
And  a  rapt,  distracted  air, 

Gazed  on  Cooke. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.   COOKE  283 

Then  she  turned,  and  quickly  cried 

To  her  lover  at  her  side, 

While  her  form  with  love  and  pride 

Wildly  shook : 

"  Clifford  Snook  !  oh,  hear  me  now ! 
Here  I  break  each  plighted  vow  ; 
There >s  but  one  to  whom  I  bow, 

And  that >s  Cooke !" 

Haughtily  that  young  man  spoke  : 
"  I  descend  from  noble  folk  ; 
6  Seven  Oaks,'  and  then  i  Se'nnoak,' 

Lastly  '  Snook/ 
Is  the  way  my  name  I  trace. 
Shall  a  youth  of  noble  race 
In  affairs  of  love  give  place 

To  a  Cooke  ?  " 

e<  Clifford  Snook,  I  know  thy  claim 
To  that  lineage  and  name, 
And  I  think  I  've  read  the  same 

In  Home  Tooke ; 
But  I  swear,  by  all  divine, 
Never,  never,  to  be  thine, 
Till  thou  canst  upon  yon  line 

Walk  like  Cooke." 

Though  to  that  gymnastic  feat 
He  no  closer  might  compete 
Than  to  strike  a  balance-sheet 

In  a  book ; 

Yet  thenceforward  from  that  day 
He  his  figure  would  display 
In  some  wild  athletic  way, 

After  Cooke. 


284  PARODIES 

On  some  household  eminence, 
On  a  clothes-line  or  a  fence, 
Over  ditches,  drains,  and  thence 

O'er  a  brook, 

He,  by  high  ambition  led, 
Ever  walked  and  balanced, 
Till  the  people,  wondering,  said, 

"  How  like  Cooke  ! " 

Step  by  step  did  he  proceed, 
Nerved  by  valor,  not  by  greed, 
And  at  last  the  crowning  deed 

Undertook. 

Misty  was  the  midnight  air, 
And  the  cliff  was  bleak  and  bare, 
When  he  came  to  do  and  dare, 

Just  like  Cooke. 

Through  the  darkness,  o'er  the  flow, 
Stretched  the  line  where  he  should  go, 
Straight  across  as  flies  the  crow 

Or  the  rook. 

One  wild  glance  around  he  cast ; 
Then  he  faced  the  ocean  blast, 
And  he  strode  the  cable  last 

Touched  by  Cooke. 

Vainly  roared  the  angry  seas, 
Vainly  blew  the  ocean  breeze ; 
But,  alas  !  the  walker's  knees 

Had  a  crook  j 

And  before  he  reached  the  rock 
Did  they  both  together  knock, 
And  he  stumbled  with  a  shock  — 

Unlike  Cooke  / 


THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.    COOKE  285 

Downward  dropping  in  the  dark, 
Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark, 
Or  a  fish-pole  when  a  shark 

Bites  the  hook, 

Dropped  the  pole  he  could  not  save, 
Dropped  the  walker,  and  the  wave 
Swift  engulfed  the  rival  brave 

Of  J.  Cooke ! 

Came  a  roar  across  the  sea 
Of  sea-lions  in  their  glee, 
In  a  tongue  remarkably 

Like  Chinook; 

And  the  maddened  sea-gull  seemed 
Still  to  utter,  as  he  screamed, 
Perish  thus  the  wretch  who  deemed 

Himself  Cooke ! » 

But  on  misty  moonlit  nights 
Comes  a  skeleton  in  tights, 
Walks  once  more  the  giddy  heights 

He  mistook; 

And  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 
Purged  of  grosser  earthly  ties, 
Now  at  last  in  spirit  guise 

Outdoes  Cooke. 

.....ooo 

Still  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Sweeps  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
Where  the  Cliff  House  balconies 

Overlook  ; 

And  the  maidens  in  their  prime, 
Reading  of  this  mournful  rhyme, 
Weep  where,  in  the  olden  time, 

Walked  J.  Cooke. 


THE   BALLAD   OF  THE   EMEU 

OH,  say,  have  you  seen  at  the  Willows  so  green  — 

So  charming  and  rurally  true  — 
A  singular  bird,  with  a  manner  absurd, 

Which  they  call  the  Australian  Emeu  ? 

Have  you 

Ever  seen  this  Australian  Emeu  ? 

It  trots  all  around  with  its  head  on  the  ground, 

Or  erects  it  quite  out  of  your  view  j 
And  the  ladies  all  cry,  when  its  figure  they  spy, 

"  Oh  !  what  a  sweet  pretty  Emeu  ! 

Oh!  do 

Just  look  at  that  lovely  Emeu !  " 

One  day  to  this  spot,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 

Came  Matilda  Hortense  Fortescue ; 
And  beside  her  there  came  a  youth  of  high  name,  — 

Augustus  Florell  Montague : 

The  two 

Both  loved  that  wild,  foreign  Emeu. 

With  two  loaves  of  bread  then  they  fed  it,  instead 

Of  the  flesh  of  the  white  Cockatoo, 
Which  once  was  its  food  in  that  wild  neighborhood 

Where  ranges  the  sweet  Kangaroo, 

That  too 

Is  game  for  the  famous  Emeu ! 

Old  saws  and  gimlets  but  its  appetite  whets, 
Like  the  world-famous  bark  of  Peru  j 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU          287 

There  ?s  nothing  so  hard  that  the  bird  will  discard, 
And  nothing  its  taste  will  eschew 

That  you 
Can  give  that  long-legged  Emeu ! 

The  time  slipped  away  in  this  innocent  play, 

When  up  jumped  the  bold  Montague : 
u  Where '&  that  specimen  pin  that  I  gayly  did  win 
In  raffle,  and  gave  unto  you, 

Fortescue  ?  " 
No  word  spoke  the  guilty  Emeu ! 

»'  Quick  !  tell  me  his  name  whom  thou  gavest  that  same3 
Ere  these  hands  in  thy  blood  I  imbrue !  " 

"  Nay,  dearest/7  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  his  side, 
"  I  'm  innocent  as  that  Emeu  !  " 

"  Adieu !  " 
He  replied,  "  Miss  M.  H.  Fortescue  !  " 

Down  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  all  as  white  as  a  sheet, 

As  wildly  he  fled  from  her  view ; 
He  thought  't  was  her  sin,  —  for  he  knew  not  the  pin 

Had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Emeu  ; 

All  through 

The  voracity  of  that  Emeu  1 


MRS.    JUDGE   JENKINS 
(BEING   THE   ONLY  GENUINE   SEQUEL  TO  "  MAUD  MUD 

LER  ") 

MAUD  MULLER  all  that  summer  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay ; 

Yet,  looking  down  the  distant  lane, 
She  hoped  the  Judge  would  come  again, 

But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 

Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered,  "  Ha-ow  ?  " 

And  spoke  of  her  "  pa,"  and  wondered  whether 
He  'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 

Old  Muller  burst  in  tears,  and  then 

Begged  that  the  Judge  would  lend  him  "  ten ; n 

For  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low, 

And  the  "  craps,"  this  year,  were  somewhat  slow. 

And  ere  the  languid  summer  died, 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  Judge's  bride. 

But  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated ; 

And  Maud's  relations,  twelve  in  all, 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  Judge's  hall 


MRS.   JUDGE  JENKINS  289 

And  when  the  summer  came  again, 
The  young  bride  hore  him  babies  twain ; 

And  the  Judge  was  blest,  but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change ; 

For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout, 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 

Was  more  than  he  now  could  span  ;  and  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully, 

How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place  ; 

And  thought  of  the  twins,  and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  men  who  raked  the  hay 

On  Muller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  pain 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane. 

And  looking  down  that  dreary  track, 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back ; 

For,  had  he  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred  ; 

For  there  be  women  fair  as  she, 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 

Alas  for  maiden  !  alas  for  judge  ! 

And  the  sentimental,  —  that  ?s  one-half  <•  fudge  ;  n 

For  Maud  soon  thought  the  Judge  a  bore, 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore ; 


290  PAEODIES 

And  the  Judge  would  have  bartered  Maud's  fair  face 
For  more  refinement  and  social  grace. 

If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  saddest  are,  "  It  might  have  been," 

More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see : 
"It  is,  but  had  n't  ought  to  be." 


A   GEOLOGICAL   MADEIGAL 

I  HAVE  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  know  where  the  fossils  abound, 
Where  the  footprints  of  Aves  declare 

The  birds  that  once  walked  on  the  ground 
Oh,  come,  and  —  in  technical  speech  — 

We  '11  walk  this  Devonian  shore, 
Or  on  some  Silurian  beach 

We  '11  wander,  my  love,  evermore. 

I  will  show  thee  the  sinuous  track 

By  the  slow-moving  Annelid  made, 
Or  the  Trilobite  that,  farther  back, 

In  the  old  Potsdam  sandstone  was  laid ; 
Thou  shalt  see,  in  his  Jurassic  tomb, 

The  Plesiosaurus  embalmed ; 
In  his  Oolitic  prime  and  his  bloom, 

Iguanodon  safe  and  unharmed. 

You  wished  —  I  remember  it  well, 

And  I  loved  you  the  more  for  that  wish  -= 
For  a  perfect  cystedian  shell 

And  a  whole  holocephalic  fish. 
And  oh,  if  Earth's  strata  contains 

In  its  lowest  Silurian  drift, 
Or  paleozoic  remains 

The  same,  't  is  your  lover's  free  gift ! 

Then  come,  love,  and  never  say  nay, 
But  calm  all  your  maidenly  fears ; 


292  PARODIES 

We  '11  note,  love,  in  one  summer's  day 
The  record  of  millions  of  years  ; 

And  though  the  Darwinian  plan 
Your  sensitive  feelings  may  shock, 

We  '11  find  the  beginning  of  man, 
Our  fossil  ancestors,  in  rock  I 


AVITOR 
(AN  AERIAL  RETROSPECT) 

WHAT  was  it  filled  my  youthful  dreams, 
In  place  of  Greek  or  Latin  themes, 
Or  beauty's  wild,  bewildering  beams  ? 
Avitor ! 

What  visions  and  celestial  scenes 
I  filled  with  aerial  machines,     . 
Montgolfier's  and  Mr.  Green's  ! 
Avitor ! 

What  fairy  tales  seemed  things  of  course ! 
The  roc  that  brought  Sindbad  across, 
The  Calendar's  own  winged  horse ! 
Avitor  ! 

How  many  things  I  took  for  facts,  — 
Icarus  and  his  conduct  lax, 
And  how  he  sealed  his  fate  with  wax ! 
Avitor ! 

The  first  balloons  I  sought  to  sail, 
Soap-bubbles  fair,  but  all  too  frail, 
Or  kites,  —  but  thereby  hangs  a  tail. 
Avitor ! 

What  made  me  launch  from  attic  tall 
A  kitten  and  a  parasol, 
And  watch  their  bitter,  frightful  fall  ? 
Avitor ! 


294  PARODIES 

What  youthful  dreams  of  high  renown 
Bade  me  inflate  the  parson's  gown, 
That  went  not  up,  nor  yet  came  down  ? 
Avitor ! 

My  first  ascent  I  may  not  tell ; 
Enough  to  know  that  in  that  well 
My  first  high  aspirations  fell. 

Avitor ! 

My  other  failures  let  me  pass : 
The  dire  explosions,  and,  alas  ! 
The  friends  I  choked  with  noxious  gaa, 
Avitor  ! 

For  lo !  I  see  perfected  rise 
The  vision  of  my  boyish  eyes, 
The  messenger  of  upper  skies. 

Avitor ! 


THE  WILLOWS 
(AFTER  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE) 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  streets  they  were  dirty  and  drear; 
It  was  night  in  the  month  of  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year. 
Like  the  skies,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

As  I  stopped  at  the  mansion  of  Shear,  — 
At  the  Nightingale,  —  perfectly  sober, 

And  the  willowy  woodland  down  here. 

Here,  once  in  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  Ten-pins,  I  roamed  with  my  soul, — 

Of  Ten-pins,  with  Mary,  my  soul ; 
They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcaniCj 

And  impelled  me  to  frequently  roll, 

And  made  me  resistlessly  roll, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

In  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  pole,  — 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

With  the  monkey  atop  of  his  pole. 

I  repeat,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

But  my  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sear, 

My  thoughts  were  decidedly  queer ; 
For  I  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  I  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year; 
I  forgot  that  sweet  morceau  of  Auber 

That  the  band  oft  performed  down  here, 


296  PARODIES 

And  I  mixed  the  sweet  music  of  Auber 
With  the  Nightingale's  music  by  Shear0 

And  now  as  the  night  was  senescent, 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 
And  car-drivers  hinted  of  morn, 

At  the  end  of  the  path  a  liquescent 
And  bibulous  lustre  was  born ; 

JT  was  made  by  the  bar-keeper  present, 
Who  mixed  a  duplicate  horn,  — 

His  two  hands  describing  a  crescent 
Distinct  with  a  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  :   "  This  looks  perfectly  regal, 
For  it 's  warm,  and  I  know  I  feel  dry,  — = 
I  am  confident  that  I  feel  dry. 

We  have  come  past  the  emeu  and  eagle, 
And  watched  the  gay  monkey  on  high ; 

Let  us  drink  to  the  emeu  and  eagle, 

To  the  swan  and  the  monkey  on  high,  — - 
To  the  eagle  and  monkey  on  high ; 

For  this  bar-keeper  will  not  inveigle, 
Bully  boy  with  the  vitreous  eye,  — 

He  surely  would  never  inveigle, 

Sweet  youth  with  the  crystalline  eye." 

But  Mary,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said :  "  Sadly  this  bar  I  mistrust,  — 
I  fear  that  this  bar  does  not  trust. 

Oh,  hasten  !  oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 

Oh,  fly,  —  let  us  fly,  — ere  we  must !  " 

In  terror  she  cried,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust ; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust,  — 
Till  it  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 


THE   WILLOWS  297 

Then  I  pacified  Mary  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  into  the  room, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  warning  of  doom,  — 
By  some  words  that  were  warning  of  doom. 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  ?  " 

She  sobbed,  as  she  answered,  "  All  liquors 
Must  be  paid  for  ere  leaving  the  room." 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober, 
As  the  streets  were  deserted  and  drear, 
For  my  pockets  were  empty  and  drear  ; 

And  I  cried  :  "It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed,  I  journeyed  down  here,  — 
That  I  brought  a  fair  maiden  down  here, 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year ! 
Ah  !  to  me  that  inscription  is  clear ; 

Well  I  know  now,  I  'm  perfectly  sober, 
Why  no  longer  they  credit  me  here,  — 

Well  I  know  now  that  music  of  Auber, 
And  this  Nightingale,  kept  by  one  Shear." 


NOKTH   BEACH 
(AFTER  SPENSER) 

Lo !  where  the  castle  of  bold  Pfeiffer  throws 

Its  sullen  shadow  on  the  rolling  tide,  — 

No  more  the  home  where  joy  and  wealth  repose, 

But  now  where  wassailers  in  cells  abide ; 

See  yon  long  quay  that  stretches  far  and  wide, 

Well  known  to  citizens  as  wharf  of  Meiggs  : 

There  each  sweet  Sabbath  walks  in  maiden  pride 

The  pensive  Margaret,  and  brave  Pat,  whose  legs 

Encased  in  broadcloth  oft  keep  time  with  Peg's. 

Here  cometh  oft  the  tender  nursery-maid, 
While  in  her  ear  her  love  his  tale  doth  pour ; 
Meantime  her  infant  doth  her  charge  evade, 
And  rambleth  sagely  on  the  sandy  shore, 
Till  the  sly  sea-crab,  low  in  ambush  laid, 
Seizeth  his  leg  and  biteth  him  full  sore. 
Ah  me  !   what  sounds  the  shuddering  echoes  bore 
When  his  small  treble  mixed  with  Ocean's  roar  1 

Hard  by  there  stands  an  ancient  hostelrie, 

And  at  its  side  a  garden,  where  the  bear, 

The  stealthy  catamount,  and  coon  agree 

To  work  deceit  on  all  who  gather  there ; 

And  when  Augusta  —  that  unconscious  fair  — 

With  nuts  and  apples  plieth  Bruin  free, 

Lo  !  the  green  parrot  claweth  her  back  hair, 

And  the  gray  monkey  grabbeth  fruits  that  she 

On  her  gay  bonnet  wears,  and  laugheth  loud  in  glee  I 


THE   LOST   TAILS   OF   MILETUS 

HIGH  on  the  Thracian  hills,  half  hid  in  the  billows  of 

clover, 
Thyme,  and  the  asphodel  blooms,  and  lulled  by  Pactolian 

streamlet, 

She  of  Miletus  lay,  and  beside  her  an  aged  satyr 
Scratched  his  ear  with  his  hoof,  and  playfully  mumbled  his 

chestnuts. 

Vainly  the  Maenid  and  the  Bassarid  gamboled  about  her, 

The  free-eyed  Bacchante  sang,  and  Pan  —  the  renowned, 
the  accomplished  — 

Executed  his  difficult  solo.  In  vain  were  their  gambols 
and  dances ; 

High  o'er  the  Thracian  hills  rose  the  voice  of  the  shep 
herdess,  wailing : 

"  Ai !  for  the  fleecy  flocks,  the  meek-nosed,  the  passionless 
faces ; 

Ai !  for  the  tallow-scented,  the  straight-tailed,  the  high- 
stepping  ; 

Ai  !  for  the  timid  glance,  which  is  that  which  the  rustic, 
sagacious, 

Applies  to  him  who  loves  but  may  not  declare  his  passion  !  " 

Her  then  Zeus  answered  slow  :   "0  daughter  of  song  and 

sorrow, 

Hapless  tender  of  sheep,  arise  from  thy  long  lamentation ! 
Since  thou  canst  not  trust  fate,   nor  behave  as  becomes 

a  Greek  maiden, 
Look  and  behold  thy  sheep."     And  lo !  they  returned  to 

her  tailless ! 


THE   KITUALIST 

(BY   A    COMMUNICANT    OF    "  ST.  JAMES'S  ") 

HE  wore,  I  think,  a  chasuble,  the  day  when  first  we  met ; 

A  stole  and  snowy  alb  likewise,  —  I  recollect  it  yet. 

He  called  me  "  daughter,"  as  he  raised  his  jeweled  hand  to 
bless ; 

And  then,  in  thrilling  undertones,  he  asked,  "  Would  I  con 
fess  ?  " 

0  mother  dear !  blame  not  your  child,  if  then  on  bended 

knees 

1  dropped,  and  thought  of  Abelard,  and  also  Eloise ; 

Or  when,  beside  the  altar  high,  he  bowed  before  the  pyx, 
I  envied  that  seraphic  kiss  he  gave  the  crucifix. 

The  cruel  world  may  think  it  wrong,  perhaps  may  deem  me 
weak, 

And,  speaking  of  that  sainted  man,  may  call  his  conduct 
"  cheek ;  " 

And,  like  that  wicked  barrister  whom  Cousin  Harry  quotes, 

May  term  his  mixed  chalice  "  grog,"  his  vestments  "  petti 
coats  j  " 

But,  whatsoe'er  they  do  or  say,  I  '11  build  a  Christian's  hope 
On  incense  and  on  altar-lights,  on  chasuble  and  cope. 
Let  others  prove,  by  precedent,  the  faith  that  they  profess  : 
"  His  can't  be  wrong  "  that 's  symbolized  by  such  becoming 
dress. 


A   MOEAL   VINDICATOR 

IF  Mr.  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  one  peculiar  quality, 
'T  was  his  severe  advocacy 
Of  conjugal  fidelity. 

His  views  of  heaven  were  very  free: 
His  views  of  life  were  painfully 
Ridiculous  ;  but  fervently 
He  dwelt  on  marriage  sanctity. 

He  frequently  went  on  a  spree ; 
But  in  his  wildest  revelry, 
On  this  especial  subject  he 
Betrayed  no  ambiguity. 

And  though  at  times  Lycurgus  B. 
Did  lay  his  hands  not  lovingly 
Upon  his  wife,  the  sanctity 
Of  wedlock  was  his  guaranty. 

But  Mrs.  Jones  declined  to  see 
Affairs  in  the  same  light  as  he, 
And  quietly  got  a  decree 
Divorcing  her  from  that  L.  B. 

And  what  did  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
With  his  known  idiosyncrasy  ? 
He  smiled,  —  a  bitter  smile  to  see,  - 
And  drew  the  weapon  of  Bowie. 


PARODIES 

He  did  what  Sickles  did  to  Key,  — 
What  Cole  on  Hiscock  wrought,  did  he  5 
In  fact,  on  persons  twenty-three 
He  proved  the  marriage  sanctity. 

The  counselor  who  took  the  fee, 
The  witnesses  and  referee, 
The  judge  who  granted  the  decree, 
Died  in  that  wholesale  butchery. 

And  then  when  Jones,  Lycurgus  Bop 
Had  wiped  the  weapon  of  Bowie, 
Twelve  jurymen  did  instantly 
Acquit  and  set  Lycurgus  free. 


CALIFORNIA   MADRIGAL 

(ON    THE    APPROACH    OF    SPRING) 

OH,  come,  my  beloved,  from  thy  winter  abode, 
From  thy  home  on  the  Yuba,  thy  ranch  overflowed; 
For  the  waters  have  fallen,  the  winter  has  fled, 
And  the  river  once  more  has  returned  to  its  bed. 

Oh,  mark  how  the  spring  in  its  beauty  is  near ! 
How  the  fences  and  tules  once  more  reappear ! 
How  soft  lies  the  mud  on  the  banks  of  yon  slough 
By  the  hole  in  the  levee  the  waters  broke  through  I 

All  nature,  dear  Chloris,  is  blooming  to  greet 
The  glance  of  your  eye  and  the  tread  of  your  feet ; 
For  the  trails  are  all  open,  the  roads  are  all  free, 
And  the  highwayman's  whistle  is  heard  on  the  lea. 

Again  swings  the  lash  on  the  high  mountain  trail, 
And  the  pipe  of  the  packer  is  scenting  the  gale ; 
The  oath  and  the  jest  ringing  high  o'er  the  plain, 
Where  the  smut  is  not  always  confined  to  the  grain. 

Once  more  glares  the  sunlight  on  awning  and  roof, 
Once  more  the  red  clay 's  pulverized  by  the  hoof, 
Once  more  the  dust  powders  the  "  outsides  "  with  red, 
Once  more  at  the  station  the  whiskey  is  spread. 

Then  fly  with  me,  love,  ere  the  summer 's  begun, 
And  the  mercury  mounts  to  one  hundred  and  one ; 
Ere  the  grass  now  so  green  shall  be  withered  and  sear, 
In  the  spring  that  obtains  but  one  month  in  the  year. 


WHAT   THE   ENGINES   SAID 

(OPENING  OF  THE  PACIFIC  RAILROAD) 

WHAT  was  ,it  the  Engines  said, 
Pilots  touching,  —  head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back  ? 
This  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread. 

With  a  prefatory  screech, 
In  a  florid  Western  speech, 
Said  the  Engine  from  the  WEST  : 
"  I  am  from  Sierra's  crest ; 
And  if  altitude  's  a  test, 
Why,  I  reckon,  it's  confessed 
That  I  've  done  my  level  best." 

Said  the  Engine  from  the  EAST  : 
tt  They  who  work  best  talk  the  least. 
S'pose  you  whistle  down  your  brakes  -, 
What  you  've  done  is  no  great  shakes,  — 
Pretty  fair,  —  but  let  our  meeting 
Be  a  different  kind  of  greeting. 
Let  these  folks  with  champagne  stuffing, 
Not  their  Engines,  do  the  puffing. 

**  Listen !     Where  Atlantic  beats 
Shores  of  snow  and  summer  heats ; 
Where  the  Indian  autumn  skies 
Paint  the  woods  with  wampum  dyes,  — 


WHAT   THE   ENGINES   SAID  305 

I  have  chased  the  flying  sun, 
Seeing  all  he  looked  upon, 
Blessing  all  that  he  has  blessed, 
Nursing  in  my  iron  breast 
All  his  vivifying  heat, 
All  his  clouds  about  my  crest ; 
And  before  my  flying  feet 
Every  shadow  must  retreat." 

Said  the  Western  Engine,  "  Phew  !  " 

And  a  long,  low  whistle  blew. 

Come,  now,  really  that 's  the  oddest 

Talk  for  one  so  very  modest. 

You  brag  of  your  East !      You  do  ? 

Why,  /  bring  the  East  to  you  ! 

All  the  Orient,  all  Cathay, 

Find  through  me  the  shortest  way ; 

And  the  sun  you  follow  here 

Rises  in  my  hemisphere. 

Really,  —  if  one  must  be  rude,  — 

Length,  my  friend,  ain't  longitude." 

Said  the  Union :  <f  Don't  reflect,  or 
I  '11  run  over  some  Director." 
Said  the  Central  :  "  I  'm  Pacific ; 
But,  when  riled,  1 7m  quite  terrific. 
Yet  to-day  we  shall  not  quarrel, 
Just  to  show  these  folks  this  moral, 
How  two  Engines  —  in  their  vision  — = 
Once  have  met  without  collision." 

That  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread; 
Spoken  slightly  through  the  nose, 
With  a  whistle  at  the  close. 


THE   LEGENDS   OF   THE   RHINE 

BEETLING  walls  with  ivy  grown, 
Frowning  heights  of  mossy  stone ; 
Turret,  with  its  flaunting  flag 
Flung  from  battlemented  crag ; 
Dungeon-keep  and  fortalice 
Looking  down  a  precipice 
O'er  the  darkly  glancing  wave 
By  the  Lurline-haunted  cave  ; 
Bobber  haunt  and  maiden  bower, 
Home  of  Love  and  Crime  and  Power, 
That 's  the  scenery,  in  fine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

One  bold  baron,  double-dyed 

Bigamist  and  parricide, 

And,  as  most  the  stories  run, 

Partner  of  the  Evil  One ; 

Injured  innocence  in  white, 

Fair  but  idiotic  quite, 

Wringing  of  her  lily  hands ; 

Valor  fresh  from  Paynim  lands, 

Abbot  ruddy,  hermit  pale, 

Minstrel  fraught  with  many  a  tale,  — 

Are  the  actors  that  combine 

In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Bell-mouthed  flagons  round  a  board ; 
Suits  of  armor,  shield,  and  sword ; 
Kerchief  with  its  bloody  stain  ; 
Ghosts  of  the  untimely  slain ; 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE         307 

Thunder-clap  and  clanking  chain  ; 
Headsman's  block  and  shining  axe  j 
Thumb-screw,  crucifixes,  racks  ; 
Midnight-tolling  chapel  bell, 
Heard  across  the  gloomy  fell,  — 
These  and  other  pleasant  facts 
Are  the  properties  that  shine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Maledictions,  whispered  vows 
Underneath  the  linden  boughs; 
Murder,  bigamy,  and  theft; 
Travelers  of  goods  bereft ; 
Rapine,  pillage,  arson,  spoil,  — 
Everything  but  honest  toil, 
Are  the  deeds  that  best  define 
Every  Legend  of  the  Rhine. 

That  Virtue  always  meets  reward, 
But  quicker  when  it  wears  a  sword  s 
That  Providence  has  special  care 
Of  gallant  knight  and  lady  fair  ; 
That  villains,  as  a  thing  of  course, 
Are  always  haunted  by  remorse,  — = 
Is  the  moral,  I  opine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


SONGS   WITHOUT   SENSE 

FOR  THE  PARLOR  AND  PIANO 
I.     THE    PERSONIFIED    SENTIMENTAL 

AFFECTION'S  charm  no  longer  gilds 

The  idol  of  the  shrine ; 
But  cold  Oblivion  seeks  to  fill 

Regret's  ambrosial  wine. 
Though  Friendship's  offering  buried  lies 

'Neath  cold  Aversion's  snow, 
Regard  and  Faith  will  ever  bloom 

Perpetually  below. 

I  see  thee  whirl  in  marble  halls, 

In  Pleasure's  giddy  train  ; 
Remorse  is  never  on  that  brow, 

Nor  Sorrow's  mark  of  pain. 
Deceit  has  marked  thee  for  her  own  | 

Inconstancy  the  same  ; 
And  Ruin  wildly  sheds  its  gleam 

Athwart  thy  path  of  shame. 

II.     THE    HOMELY    PATHETIC 

The  dews  are  heavy  on  my  brow ; 

My  breath  conies  hard  and  low ; 
Yet,  mother  dear,  grant  one  request, 

Before  your  boy  must  go. 
Oh !  lift  me  ere  my  spirit  sinks, 

And  ere  my  senses  fail, 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE  309 

Place  me  once  more,  0  mother  dear. 
Astride  the  old  fence-rail. 


The  old  fence-rail,  the  old  fence-rail ! 

How  oft  these  youthful  legs, 
With  Alice'  and  Ben  Bolt's,  were  hung 

Across  those  wooden  pegs  ! 
'T  was  there  the  nauseating  smoke 

Of  my  first  pipe  arose : 

0  mother  dear,  these  agonies 
Are  far  less  keen  than  those. 

1  know  where  lies  the  hazel  dell, 

Where  simple  Nellie  sleeps  ; 
I  know  the  cot  of  Nettie  Moore, 

And  where  the  willow  weeps. 
I  know  the  brookside  and  the  mill, 

But  all  their  pathos  fails 
Beside  the  days  when  once  I  sat 

Astride  the  old  fence-rails. 


III.     SWISS    AIR 

I  'm  a  gay  tra,  la,  la, 
With  my  fal,  lal,  la,  la, 
And  my  bright  — 
And  my  light  — 

Tra,  la,  le.  [Eepeat.J 

Then  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
And  ring,  ting,  ling,  ling, 
And  sing  fal,  la,  la, 

La,  la,  le.  [Kepeat.j 


VI.    LITTLE  POSTEEITY 

MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEXT-DOOR   NEIGHBOR 

IT  was  spring  the  first  time  that  I  saw  her,  for  her  papa 

and  mamma  moved  in 
Next  door,  just  as  skating  was  over,  and  marbles  about  to 

begin  ; 
For  the  fence  in  our  back  yard  was  broken,  and  I  saw,  as  I 

peeped  through  the  slat, 
There   were    "  Johnny-jump-ups "   all    around  her,  and  I 

knew  it  was  spring  just  by  that. 

I  never  knew  whether   she  saw  me,  for  she  did  n't  say 

nothing  to  me, 
But  "  Ma !  here  's  a  slat  in  the  fence  broke,  and  the  boy 

that  is  next  door  can  see." 
But  the  next  day  I  climbed  on  our  wood-shed,  as  you  know 

Mamma  says  I  've  a  right, 
And  she  calls  out,   "  Well,  peekin'  is  manners !  "  and  I 

answered  her,  "  Sass  is  perlite  !  " 

But  I  was  n't  a  bit  mad,  no,  Papa,  and  to  prove  it,  the  very 

next  day, 
When  she  ran  past  our  fence  in  the  morning  I  happened  to 

get  in  her  way,  — 
For  you  know  I  am  "  chunked  "  and  clumsy,  as  she  says 

are  all  boys  of  my  size,  — 
And  she  nearly  upset  me,  she  did,  Pa,  and  laughed  till  tears 

came  in  her  eyes. 


MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR       oU 

And  then  we  were  friends  from  that  moment,  for  I  knew 

that  she  told  Kitty  Sage,  — 
And   she  was  n't  a  girl    that  would  flatter  — "  that   she 

thought  I  was  tall  for  my  age." 
And  I  gave  her  four  apples  that  evening,  and  took  her  to 

ride  on  my  sled, 
And  —    "  What  am  I  telling  you  this  for  ?  "    Why,  Papa, 

my  neighbor  is  dead  ! 

You  don't  hear  one  half  I  am  saying,  —  I  really  do  think 
it 's  too  bad  ! 

Why,  you  might  have  seen  crape  on  her  door-knob,  and  no 
ticed  to-day  I  've  been  sad. 

And  they  've  got  her  a  coffin  of  rosewood,  and  they  say  they 
have  dressed  her  in  white, 

And  I  've  never  once  looked  through  the  fence,  Pa,  since 
she  died  —  at  eleven  last  night. 

And  Ma  says  it 's  decent  and  proper,  as  I  was  her  neighbor 

and  friend, 
That  I  should  go  there  to  the  funeral,  and  she  thinks  that 

you  ought  to  attend ; 
But  I  am  so  clumsy  and  awkward,  I  know  I  shall  be  in  the 

way, 
And  suppose  they  should  speak  to  me,  Papa,  I  would  n't 

know  just  what  to  say. 

So  I  think  I  will  get  up  quite  early,  —  I  know  I  sleep  late, 

but  I  know 
I'll  be  sure  to  wake  up  if  our  Bridget  pulls  the  string  that 

I  '11  tie  to  my  toe  ; 
And    I  '11    crawl    through  the    fence,  and  I  '11   gather  the 

"  Johnny-jump-ups"  as  they  grew 
Kound  her  feet  the  first  day  that  I  saw  her,  and,  Papa,  I  '11 

give  them  to  you. 


312  LITTLE   POSTERITY 

For  you  're  a  big  man,  and,  you  know,  Pa,  can  come  and  go 
just  where  you  choose, 

And  you  '11  take  the  flowers  in  to  her,  and  surely  they  '11 
never  refuse ; 

But,  Papa,  don't  say  they  're  from  Johnny  :  they  won't  un 
derstand,  don't  you  see  ? 

But  just  lay  them  down  on  her  bosom,  and,  Papa,  she  '11 
know  they  're  from  Me. 


MISS   EDITH'S   MODEST   BEQUEST 

MY  Papa  knows  you,  and  he  says  you  're  a  man  who  makes 

reading  for  books ; 
But  I  never  read  nothing  you  wrote,  nor  did  Papa,  —  I  know 

by  his  looks. 
So  I  guess  you  're  like  me  when  I  talk,  and  I  talk,  and  I 

talk  all  the  day, 
And  they  only  say,  "  Do  stop  that  child !  "  or,  "  Nurse, 

take  Miss  Edith  away." 

But  Papa  said  if  I  was  good  I  could  ask  you  —  alone  by 

myself  — 
If  you  would  n't  write  me  a  book  like  that  little  one  up  on 

the  shelf. 
I  don't  mean  the   pictures,   of  course,  for  to   make  them 

you  've  got  to  be  smart  •, 
But  the  reading  that  runs  all  around  them,  you  know,  — just 

the  easiest  part. 

You  need  n't  mind  what  it  's  about,  for  no  one  will  see  it 

but  me, 
And  Jane,  —  that  's  my  nurse,  —  and  John,  —  he 's   the 

coachman,  —  just  only  us  three. 
You  're  to  write  of  a  bad  little  girl,  that  was  wicked  and 

bold  and  all  that ; 
And  then  you  're  to  write,  if  you  please,  something  good  — 

very  good  —  of  a  cat ! 

This  cat,  she   was   virtuous  and  meek,  and  kind  to  her 

parents,  and  mild,  f 

And  careful  and  neat  in  her  ways,  though  her  mistress  was 

such  a  bad  child ; 


314  LITTLE   POSTERITY 

And  hours  she  would  sit  and  would  gaze  when  her  mistress 

—  that 's  me  —  was  so  bad, 
And  blink,  just  as  if    she  would  say,  "Oh,  Edith!    you 

make  my  heart  sad." 

And   yet,  you  would    scarcely  believe  it,   that  beautiful, 

angelic  cat 
Was  blamed  by  the   servants   for   stealing  whatever,  they 

said,  she  'd  get  at. 
And  when  John  drank  my  milk,  —  don't  you  tell  me  !     I 

know  just  the  way  it  was  done,  — 
They  said  't  was  the  cat,  —  and  she  sitting  and  washing  her 

face  in  the  sun ! 

And  then  there  was  Dick,  my  canary.      When  I  left  its 

cage  open  one  day, 
They  all  made  believe  that  she  ate  it,  though  I  know  that 

the  bird  flew  away. 
And  why  ?     Just  because  she  was  playing  with  a  feather 

she  found  on  the  floor. 
As  if  cats  could  n't  play  with  a  feather  without  people 

thinking  't  was  more  ! 

Why,   once  we  were  romping  together,   when  I  knocked 

down  a  vase  from  the  shelf, 
That  cat  was  as  grieved  and  distressed  as  if  she  had  done  it 

herself ; 
And  she   walked  away  sadly  and  hid  herself,   and  nevei 

came  out  until  tea,  — 
So  they  say,  for  they  sent  me  to  bed,  and  she  never  cam« 

even  to  me. 

No  matter  whatever  happened,  it  was  laid  at  the  door  of 

that  cat. 
Why,  once  when  I  tore  my  apron,  —  she  was  wrapped  in  ii* 

and  I  called  "  Eat !  "  — 


MISS  EDITH'S  MODEST  REQUEST  315 

Why,  they  blamed  that  on  her.     I  shall  never  —  no,  not  to 

my  dying  day  — 
Forget  the  pained  look  that  she  gave  me  when  they  slapped 

me  and  took  me  away. 

Of  course,  you  know  just  what  comes  next,  when  a  child  is 

as  lovely  as  that : 
She  wasted  quite  slowly  away ;  it  was  goodness  was  killing 

that  cat. 
I  know  it  was  nothing  she  ate,  for  her  taste  was  exceedingly 

nice  ; 
But  they  said  she  stole  Bobby's  ice  cream,  and  caught  a  bad 

cold  from  the  ice. 

And  you  '11  promise  to  make  me  a  book  like  that  little  one 

up  on  the  shelf, 
And  you'll  call  her  " Naomi,"  because  it's  a  name  that  she 

just  gave  herself ; 
For  she  'd  scratch  at  my  door  in  the  morning,  and  whenever 

I  'd  call  out,  "  Who 's  there  ?  " 
She  would  answer,  "  Naomi !  Naomi !  "  like  a  Christian,  I 

vow  and  declare. 

And  you'll  put  me  and  her  in  a  book.     And  mind,  you're 

to  say  I  was  bad ; 
And  I  might    have    been    badder  than    that   but  for  the 

example  I  had. 
And  you  '11  say  that  she  was  a  Maltese,  and  —  what 's  that 

you  asked  ?     "Is  she  dead  ? " 
Why,  please,  sir,  there  ain't  any  cat  /      You  're  to  make 

one  up  out  of  your  head  1 


MISS   EDITH    MAKES   IT   PLEASANT  FOR 
BEOTHEK   JACK 

"  CRYING  ! "     Of  course  I  am  crying,  and  I  guess  you  would 

be  crying,  too, 
If  people  were  telling  such  stories  as  they  tell  about  me, 

about  you. 
Oh  yes,  you  can  laugh  if  you  want  to,  and  smoke  as  you 

did  n't  care  how, 
And  get  your  brains  softened  like  uncle's.     Dr.  Jones  says 

you  're  gettin'  it  now. 

Why  don't  you  say  "  Stop  !  "  to  Miss  Ilsey  ?     She  cries 

twice  as  much  as  I  do, 
And  she 's  older  and    cries  just  from  meanness,  —  for  a 

ribbon  or  anything  new. 
Ma  says  it 's  her   "  sensitive  nature."     Oh    my !     No,  I 

sha'n't  stop  my  talk ! 
And  I  don't  want  no  apples  nor  candy,  and  I  don't  want  to 

go  take  a  walk ! 

I  know  why  you  're  mad  !     Yes,  I  do,  now  !     You  think 

that  Miss  Ilsey  likes  you, 
And  I  've  heard  her  repeatedly  call  you  the  bold-facest  boy 

that  she  knew ; 
And  she  'd  "  like  to  know  where  you  learnt  manners."    Oh 

yes  !     Kick  the  table,  —  that 's  right ! 
Spill  the  ink  on  my  dress,  and  go  then  round  telling  Ma 

that  I  look  like  a  fright ! 


MISS   EDITH  AND   BROTHER  JACK  ,317 

What  stories  ?  Pretend  you  don't  know  that  they  're  say 
ing  I  broke  off  the  match 

'Twixt  old  Money-grubber  and  Mary,  by  saying  she  called 
him  "  Crosspatch," 

When  the  only  allusion  I  made  him  about  sister  Mary  was, 
she 

Cared  more  for  his  cash  than  his  temper,  and  you  know, 
Jack,  you  said  that  to  me. 

And  it 's  true  !     But  it 's  me,  and  I  'm  scolded,  and  Pa  says 

if  I  keep  on  I  might 
By  and    by  get    my  name  in  the    papers !     Who    cares  ? 

Why,  't  was  only  last  night 
I  was  reading  how  Pa  and  the  sheriff  were  selling  some 

lots,  and  it 's  plain 
If  it 's  awful  to  be  in  the  papers,  why,  Papa  would  go  and 

complain. 

You  think  it  ain't  true  about  Ilsey  ?      Well,  I  guess  I 

know  girls,  and  I  say 
There  ?s  nothing  I  see  about  Ilsey  to  show  she  likes  you, 

anyway  ! 
I  know  what  it  means  when  a  girl  who  has  called  her  cat 

after  one  boy 
Goes  and  changes  its  name  to  another's.     And  she  'a  done 

it  —  and  I  wish  you  joy  ! 


MISS   EDITH   MAKES   ANOTHER   FRIEND 

OH,  you're  the  girl  lives  on  the  corner?     Come  in — if 

you  want  to  —  come  quick  ! 
There 's  no  one  but  me  in  the  house,  and  the  cook  —  but 

she  's  only  a  stick. 
Don't  try  the  front  way,  but  come  over  the  fence  —  through 

the  window  —  that  's  how. 
Don't  mind  the  big  dog  —  he  won't  bite  you — just  see  him 

obey  me  !  there,  now  ! 

What 's  your  name  ?    Mary  Ellen  ?    How  funny  !    Mine 's 

Edith  —  it 's  nicer,  you  see  ; 
But  yours  does  for  you,  for  you  're  plainer,  though  maybe 

you  're  gooder  than  me  ; 
For  Jack  says  I  'm   sometimes   a  devil,  but  Jack,  of  all 

folks,  need  n't  talk, 
For  I  don't  call  the  seamstress  an  angel  till  Ma  says  the 

poor  thing  must  "  walk." 

Come  in !     It 's  quite  dark  in  the  parlor,  for  sister  will 

keep  the  blinds  down, 
For  you  know  her  complexion  is  sallow  like  yours,  but  she 

is  n't  as  brown  ; 
Though  Jack  says  that  is  n't  the  reason  she  likes  to  sit 

here  with  Jim  Moore. 
Do  you  think  that  he  meant  that  she  kissed  him  ?     Would 

you  —  if  your  Ifps  was  n't  sore  ? 

If  you  like,  you  can  try  our  piano.     'T  ain't  ours.     A  man 

left  it  here 
To  rent  by  the  month,  although  Ma  says  he  has  n't  been 

paid  for  a  year. 


MISS   EDITH  MAKES   ANOTHER  F*[END  319 

Sister  plays  —  oh,   such    fine  variations !  —  why,   I    once 

heard  a  gentleman  say 
That  she  did  n't  mind  that  for  the  music  —  in  fact,  it  was 

just  in  her  way  ! 

Ain't  I  funny  ?     And   yet   it 's   the  queerest  of  all  that> 

whatever  I  say, 
One  half  of  the  folks  die  a-laughing,  and  the  rest,  they  all 

look  t'other  way. 
And  some  say,  "  That  child  !  "     Do  they  ever  say  that  to 

such  people  as  you  ? 
Though  maybe  you  're  naturally  silly,  and  that  makes  your 

eyes  so  askew. 

Now  stop  —  don't  you  dare  to  be  crying  !     Just  as  sure  as 

you  live,  if  you  do, 
I  '11  call  in  my  big  dog  to  bite  you,  and  I  '11  make  my  Papa 

kill  you,  too ! 
And  then  where  '11  you  be  ?     So  play  pretty.      There 's  my 

doll,  and  a  nice  piece  of  cake. 
You  don't  want  it  —  you  think  it  is  poison !     Then  I'll 

eat  it,  dear,  just  for  your  sake  1 


WHAT   MISS   EDITH   SAW  FEOM  HER 
WINDOW 

OUB  window 's  not  much,  though  it  fronts  on  the  street ; 
There  ?s  a  fly  in  the  pane  that  gets  nothin'  to  eat ; 
But  it 's  curious  how  people  think  it  ?s  a  treat 
For  me  to  look  out  of  the  window ! 

Why,  when  company  comes,  and  they  're  all  speaking  low, 
With  their  chairs  drawn  together,  then  some  one  says, 

"Oh! 

Edith  dear  !  —  that 'a  a  good  child  —  now  run,  love, 
and  go 

And  amuse  yourself  there  at  the  window !  " 

Or  Bob  —  that  ?s  my  brother  —  comes  in  with  his  chum, 
And  they  whisper  and  chuckle,  the  same  words  will 

come. 

And  it 's  "  Edith,  look  here  !     Oh,  I  say  !  what  a  rum 
Lot  of  things  you  can  see  from  that  window !  " 

And  yet,  as  I  told  you,  there  's  only  that  fly 

Buzzing  round  in  the  pane,  and  a  bit  of  blue  sky, 
And  the  girl  in  the  opposite  window,  that  I 

Look  at  when  she  looks  from  her  window. 

And  yet,  I  ?ve  been  thinking  1 7d  so  like  to  see 

If  what  goes  on  behind  her,  goes  on  behind  me  ! 
And  then,  goodness  gracious  !  what  fun  it  would  be 
For  us  both  as  we  sit  by  our  window ! 


WHAT  MISS   EDITH   SAW  FROM   HER  WINDOW        $21 

How  we  'd  know  when  the  parcels  were  hid  in  a  drawer, 
Or  things  taken  out  that  one  never  sees  more  ; 
What  people  come  in  and  go  out  of  the  door, 
That  we  never  see  from  the  window ! 

And  that  night  when  the  stranger  came  home  with  our  Jane 
I  might    see  what    I  heard   then,   that    sounded    so 

plain  — 
Like  when  my  wet  fingers  I  ruh  on  the  pane 

(Which  they  won't  let  me  do  on  my  window). 

And  I  Jd  know  why  papa  shut  the  door  with  a  slam, 

And  said  something  funny  that  sounded  like  "jam," 
And  then  "  Edith  —  where  are  you  ?  "    I  said,  "  Here 
I  am." 

"  Ah,  that 's  right,  dear,  look  out  of  the  window ! " 

They  say  when  I  'm  grown  up  these  things  will  appear 
More  plain  than  they  do  when  I  look  at  them  here, 
But  I  think  I  see  some  things  uncommonly  clear, 
As  I  sit  and  look  down  from  the  window. 

What  things  ?     Oh,  the  things  that  I  make  up,  you  know, 
Out  of  stories  I  've  read  —  and  they  all  pass  below. 
Ali  Baba,  the  Forty  Thieves,  all  in  a  row, 
Go  by,  as  I  look  from  my  window. 

That 's  only  at  church  time  ;  other  days  there  's  no  crowd. 
Don't  laugh  !     See  that  big  man  who  looked  up  and 

bowed  ? 

That 's  our  butcher  —  /  call  him  the  Sultan  Mahoud 
When  he  nods  to  me  here  at  the  window ! 

And  that  man  — he  's  our  neighbor  — just  gone  for  a  ride 
Has  three  wives  in  the  churchyard  that  lie  side  by  side. 


322  LITTLE   POSTERITY 

So  I  call  him  "  Bluebeard "  in  search  of  his  bride, 
While  1 'm  Sister  Anne  at  the  window. 

And  what  do  I  call  you  ?     Well,  here  's  what  I  do : 

When  my  sister  expects  you,  she  puts  me  here,  too; 
But  I  wait  till  you  enter,  to  see  if  it 's  you, 
And  then  —  I  just  open  the  window  ! 

"  Dear  child  !  "    Yes,  that 's  me  !    Oh,  you  ask  what  that 's 

for? 
Well,  Papa  says  you  're  "  Poverty's  self,"  and  what 's 

more, 

I  open  the  window,  when  you  're  at  the  door, 
To  see  Love  fly  out  of  the  window ! " 


ON  THE   LANDING 

(AN    IDYL    OF    THE    BALUSTERS) 

BOBBY,  cetat.  3£.  JOHNNY,  astat.  4£. 

BOBBY 

Do  you  know  why  they  've  put  us  in  that  back  room, 
Up  in  the  attic,  close  against  the  sky, 
And  made  believe  our  nursery  's  a  cloak-room  ? 
Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  Sammy's  mother, 
What  Ma  thinks  horrid,  'cause  he  bunged  my  eye, 
Eats  an  ice  cream,  down  there,  like  any  other ! 
No  more  don't  I ! 

BOBBY 

Do  you  know  why  Nurse  says  it  is  n't  manners 
For  you  and  me  to  ask  folks  twice  for  pie, 
And  no  one  hits  that  man  with  two  bananas  ? 
Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  girl,  whose  dress  is 
Off  of  her  shoulders,  don't  catch  cold  and  die, 
When  you  and  me  gets  croup  when  we  undresses ! 
No  more  don't  I ! 


324  LITTLE   POSTERITY 

BOBBY 

Perhaps  she  ain't  as  good  as  you  and  I  is, 
And  God  don't  want  her  up  there  in  the  sky, 
And  lets  her  live  —  to  come  in  just  when  pie  is  — • 
Perhaps  that  's  why  ! 

JOHNNY 

Do  you  know  why  that  man  that  ?s  got  a  cropped  head 
Rubbed  it  just  now  as  if  he  felt  a  fly  ? 
Could  it  be,  Bobby,  something  that  I  dropded  ? 
And  is  that  why  ? 

BOBBY 

Good  boys  behaves,  and  so  they  don't  get  scolded. 
Nor  drop  hot  milk  on  folks  as  they  pass  by. 

JOHNNY  (piously) 

Marbles  would  bounce  on  Mr.  Jones'  bald  head  — 
But  I  sha'n't  try  ! 

BOBBY 

Do  you  know  why  Aunt  Jane  is  always  snarling 
At  you  and  me  because  we  tells  a  lie, 
And  she  don't  slap  that  man  that  called  her  darling  ? 
Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  man  with  Mamma 
Just  kissed  her  hand. 

BOBBY 

She  hurt  it  —  and  that 's  why  s 
He  made  it  well,  the  very  way  that  Mamma 
Does  do  to  I. 


ON  THE  LANDING  325 

JOHNNY 

I  feel  so  sleepy.  .  .  .  Was  that  Papa  kissed  us  ? 
What  made  him  sigh,  and  look  up  to  the  sky  ? 

BOBBY 

We  were  n't  downstairs,  and  he  and  God  had  missed  us, 
And  that  was  why  J 


NOTES 

PAGE  106.  The  Lost  Galleon.  As  the  custom  on  which  the  central 
incident  of  this  legend  is  based  may  not  be  familiar  to  all  readers,  I  will 
repeat  here  that  it  is  the  habit  of  navigators  to  drop  a  day  from  their  cal 
endar  in  crossing  westerly  the  180th  degree  of  longitude  of  Greenwich, 
adding  a  day  in  coming  east  ;  and  that  the  idea  of  the  lost  galleon  had 
an  origin  as  prosaic  as  the  log  of  the  first  China  Mail  Steamer  from  San 
Francisco.  The  explanation  of  the  custom  and  its  astronomical  relations 
belongs  rather  to  the  usual  text-books  than  to  poetical  narration.  If  any 
reader  thinks  I  have  overdrawn  the  credulous  superstitions  of  the  ancient 
navigators,  I  refer  him  to  the  veracious  statements  of  Maldonado,  De 
Fonte",  the  later  voyages  of  La  Perouse  and  Anson,  and  the  charts  of  1640. 
In  the  charts  of  that  day  Spanish  navigators  reckoned  longitude  E.  360 
degrees  from  the  meridian  of  the  Isle  of  Ferro.  For  the  sake  of  perspicuity 
before  a  modern  audience,  the  more  recent  meridian  of  Madrid  was  substi 
tuted.  The  custom  of  dropping  a  day  at  some  arbitrary  point  in  crossing 
the  Pacific  westerly,  I  need  not  say,  remains  unaffected  by  any  change  of 
meridian.  I  know  not  if  any  galleon  was  ever  really  missing.  For  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  an  annual  trip  was  made  between  Acapulco  and 
Manila.  It  may  be  some  satisfaction  to  the  more  severely  practical  of  my 
readers  to  know  that,  according  to  the  best  statistics  of  insurance,  the  loss 
during  that  period  would  be  exactly  three  vessels  and  six  hundredths  of  a 
vessel,  which  would  certainly  justify  me  in  this  summan'  disposition  of 
one. 

PAGE  280.  The  Pliocene  Skull  This  extraordinary  fossil  is  in  the  pos 
session  of  Prof.  Josiah  D.  Whitney,  of  the  State  Geological  Survey  of 
California.  The  poem  was  based  on  the  following  paragraph  from  the 
daily  press  of  18ti6  :  "A  human  skull  has  been  found  in  California,  in  the 
pliocene  formation.  This  skull  is  the  remnant  not  only  of  the  earliest 
pioneer  of  this  State,  but  the  oldest  known  human  being.  .  .  .  The  skull 
was  found  in  a  shaft  150  feet  deep,  two  miles  from  Angels  in  Calaveras 
County,  by  a  miner  named  James  Watson,  who  gave  it  to  Mr.  Scribner,  a 
merchant,  who  gave  it  to  Dr.  Jones,  who  sent  it  to  the  State  Geological 
Survey.  .  .  .  The  published  volume  of  the  State  Survey  of  the  Geology 
of  California  states  that  man  existed  here  contemporaneously  with  the 
mastodon,  but  this  fossil  proves  that  he  was  here  before  the  mastodon  was 
known  to  exist." 


INDEX  OF  FIKST   LINES 

PACT 

Above  the  bones 225 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting 209 

Act  first,  scene  first.    A  study.    Of  a  kind 49 

Affection's  charm  no  longer  gilds 308 

An  empty  bench,  a  sky  of  grayest  etching 261 

And  you  are  the  poet,  and  so  you  want 36 

As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest 243 

As  you  look  from  the  plaza  at  Leon  west 83 

Beautiful !    Sir,  you  may  say  so.  Thar  is  n't  her  match  in  the  county  115 

Beetling  walls  with  ivy  grown 306 

Beg  your  pardon,  old  fellow  !  I  think 211 

Behind  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize 279 

Being  asked  by  an  intimate  party 160 

Bells  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 74 

Blown  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew 206 

Brief  words,  when  actions  wait,  are  well 244 

Brown  foundling  of  the  Western  wood 238 

Bunny,  lying  in  the  grass 7 

By  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting 202 

Came  the  relief .    "  What,  sentry,  ho  I" 13 

Captain  of  the  Western  wood 205 

Certain  facts  which  serve  to  explain 219 

Cicely  says  you  're  a  poet;  maybe,  —  I  ain't  much  on  rhyme 124 

Coward,  —  of  heroic  size 204 

"Crying!  "  of  course  I  am  crying,  and  I  guess  you  would  be  crying 

too 316 

Dear  Dolly  I  who  does  not  recall 246 

Did  I  ever  tell  you,  my  dears,  the  way 269 

Did  n't  know  Flynn 122 

Do  I  sleep?  do  I  dream  ? 165 

Do  you  know  why  they  've  put  us  in  that  back  room 323 

Don't  mind  me,  I  beg  you,  old  fellow,  —  I  '11  do  very  well  here  alone  248 

Down  the  picket-guarded  lane 5 

Dow'sFlat.    That 's  its  name 118 

Drunk  and  senseless  in  his  place 90 


330                             INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES 
Good !  —  said  the  Padre,  —  believe  me  still 


Halt!  Here  we  are.    Now  wheel  your  mare  a  trifle 188 

Hark !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 10 

"  Have  a  care  !  "  the  bailiffs  cried 45 

Have  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 1. 

He  wore,  I  think,  a  chasuble,  the  day  when  first  we  met 300 

Here  's  the  spot.    Look  around  you.    Above  on  the  height 31 

Here  's  yer  toy  balloons !    All  sizes ! 241 

High  on  the  Thracian  hills,  half  hid  in  the  billows  of  clover 299 

I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair 291 

I  mind  it  was  but  yesterday 214 

I  read  last  night  of  the  grand  review 17 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James 132 

I  speak  not  the  English  well,  but  Pachita 104 

"  I  was  with  Grant  "  —  the  stranger  said 27 

If  Mr.  Jones,  Lycurgus  B 301 

I  'm  a  gay  tra,  la,  la 309 

I  'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire 357 

In  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one 106 

It  is  the  story  of  Thompson  —  of  Thompson,  the  hero  of  Angels  ....  152 
It  was  Andrew  Jackson  Sutter,  who,  despising  Mr.  Cutter  for  re» 

marks  he  heard  him  utter  in  debate  upon  the  floor. 178 

It  was  noon  by  the  sun ;  we  had  finished  our  game 142 

It  was  spring  the  first  time  that  I  saw  her,  for  her  papa  and  mamma 

moved  in 310 

It  was  the  morning  season  of  the  year 98 

It  was  the  stage-driver's  story,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 

wheelers 175 

June  4th!    Do  you  know  what  that  date  means  ? 275 

Know  I  not  whom  thou  mayst  be 97 

Know  me  next  time  when  you  see  me,  won't  you,  old  smarty  ? 172 

Last  night,  above  the  whistling  wind 21 

Lo!  where  the  castle  of  bold  Pfeiffer  throws 298 

Look  how  the  upland  plunges  into  cover 149 

Looking  seaward,   o'er  the  sand-hills  stands  the  fortress,  old  and 

quaint 76 

Maud  Muller  all  that  summer  day 288 

My  Papa  knows  you,  and  he  says  you  're  a  man  who  makes  reading 

for  books 313 

Name  of  my  heroine,  simply  "Rose  " 234 

No,  I  won't  —  thar,  now,  so !  And  it  ain't  nothin'  —  no ! 29 

No  life  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sky 265 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  331 

Not  ours,  where  battle  smoke  upcurls . .  12 

Now,  shift  the  blanket  pad  before  your  saddle  back  you  fling 257 

O  bells  that  rang,  O  bells  that  sang 264 

O  joy  of  creation 256 

O  poor  Romancer  —  thou  whose  printed  page 267 

Of  all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing 70 

Oh,  come,  my  beloved !  from  thy  winter  abode 303 

Oh,  say,  have  you  seen  at  the  Willows  so  green 286 

Oh,  you  're  the  girl  lives  on  the  corner  ?  Come  in  —  if  you  want  to  — 

come  quick ! 318 

Our  window 's  not  much,  though  it  fronts  on  the  street 320 

Over  the  chimney  the  night- wind  sang 208 

Sauntering  hither  on  listless  wings 207 

Say  there !    P'r'aps 112 

Serene,  indifferent  of  Fate 200 

Shrewdly  you  question,  Senor,  and  I  fancy 192 

So  she 's  here,  your  unknown  Dulcinea,  the  lady  you  met  on  the 

train 253 

So  you  're  back  from  your  travels,  old  fellow 163 

So  you  '  ve  kem  'yer  agen 127 

"  Something  characteristic,"  eh  ? 139 

Speak,  0  man,  less  recent !    Fragmentary  fossil ! 280 

The  dews  are  heavy  on  my  brow 308 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober 295 

The  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare 213 

There  is  peace  in  the  swamp  where  the  Copperhead  sleeps 20 

They  ran  through  the  streets  of  the  seaport  town 195 

They  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 197 

This  is  that  hill  of  awe 240 

This  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped 16 

This  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 67 

Two  low  whistles,  quaint  and  clear 217 


Very  fair  and  full  of  promise . 


Waltz  in,  waltz  in,  ye  little  kids,  and  gather  round  my  knee 183 

We  checked  our  pace,  the  red  road  sharply  rounding 155 

We  hev  tumbled  ez  dust 180 

We  know  him  well :  no  need  of  praise 25 

We  meet  in  peace,  though  from  our  native  East 33 

Well,  you  see,  the  fact  is,  Colonel,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  come 23 

What  I  want  is  my  husband,  sir  168 

What  was  it  filled'my  youthful  dreams 293 

What  was  it  the  Engines  said 304 

When  I  bought  you  for  a  song 273 

Where  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 40 


332  INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES 

Where  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 282 

Which  I  wish  to  remark 129 

Which  it  is  not  my  style 146 

"Who  comes?"    The  sentry's  warning  cry 14 

Why,  as  to  that,  said  the  engineer 170 

Wondering  maiden  so  puzzled  and  fair 252 

Wot 's  that  you  're  readin'  ?  —  a  novel  ?    A  novel  1  —  well,  darn  my 

skinl 134 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


[The  titles  in  small-capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work; 
Chose  in  lower-case  are  single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


Address  (Opening  of  the  California  The 
atre,  San  Francisco,  January  19, 1870), 
244. 

After  the  Accident,  168. 

Aged  Stranger,  The,  27. 

Alnaschar,  241. 

Angelus,  The,  74. 

Arctic  Vision,  An,  40. 

Artemis  in  Sierra,  188. 

Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine,  219. 

At  the  Hacienda,  97. 

Avitor,  293. 

"  Babes  in  the  Woods,  The,"  139. 
Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke,  The.,  282. 
Ballad  of  the  Emeu,  The,  286. 
Battle  Bunny,  7. 
Before  the  Curtain,  279. 
Birds  of  Cireucester,  The,  269. 

Cadet  Grey,  49. 

Caldwell  of  Springfield,  31. 

California  Madrigal,  303. 

California's  Greeting  to  Seward,  25. 

Chiquita,  115. 

"  Cicely,"  124. 

Concepcion  de  Arguello,  76. 

Copperhead,  The,  20. 

Coyote,  206. 

"  Crotalus,"  265. 

Dickens  hi  Camp,  209. 
Dolly  Varden,  246. 
Don  Diego  of  the  South,  93. 
Dow's  Flat,  118. 

Fate,  213. 

For  the  King,  83. 

Friar  Pedro's  Ride,  98. 

Further  Language  from  Truthful  James, 

Geological  Madrigal,  A,  291. 
Ghost  that  Jim  saw,  The,  170. 
Goddess,  The,  14. 
Grandmother  Tenterden,  214. 
Greyport  Legend,  A,  195. 
Grizzly,  204. 
Guild's  Signal,  217. 

Half  an  Hour  before  Supper,  253. 

Hawk's  Nest,  The,  155. 

Her  Letter,  157. 

His  Answer  to  "  Her  Letter,"  160. 


Her  Last  Letter :  being  a  Reply  to  "  Hi* 

Answer,"  275. 
"  How  are  You,  Sanitary?  "  5. 

Idyl  of  Battle  Hollow,  The,  29. 
Idyl  of  the  Road,  An,  149. 
IN  DIALECT,  112. 
In  the  Mission  Garden,  104. 
In  the  Tunnel,  122. 

Jack  of  the  Tules,  192. 

"Jim,"  112. 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg,  1. 

Latest  Chinese  Outrage,  The,  142. 
Legend  of  Cologne,  A,  225. 
Legends  of  the  Rhine,  The,  306. 
Lines  to  a  Portrait,  by  a  Superior  Per 
son,  273. 

LITTLE  POSTERITY,  310. 
Lone  Mountain,  240. 
Lost  Galleon,  The,  106. 
Lost  Tails  of  Miletus,  The,  299. 
Luke,  134. 

Madrono,  205. 

Master  Johnny's  Nezt-Door  Neighbor, 

310. 
Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero,  The,  67. 

MISCELLANEOUS,  195. 

Miss  Blanche  says,  36. 
Miss  Edith  makes  another  Friend,  318. 
Miss  Edith  makes  it  Pleasant  for  Bro 
ther  Jack,  316. 

Miss  Edith's  Modest  Request,  313. 
Mission  Bells  of  Monterey,  The,  264, 
Moral  Vindicator,  A,  301. 
Mountain  Heart's-Ease,  The,  202. 
Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins,  288. 

NATIONAL,  1. 

Newport  Romance,  A,  197. 

North  Beach,  298. 

Off  Scarborough,  45. 

Old  Camp-Fire,  The,  257. 

Old  Major  Explains,  The,  23. 

On  a  Cone  of  the  Big  Trees,  238. 

On  a  Pen  of  Thomas  Starr  King,  16. 

On  the  Landing,  323. 

On  William  Francis  Bartlett,  267. 

Our  Privilege,  12. 

PABODIBS,  279. 


334 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Penelope,  127. 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James, 
129. 

Poem,  delivered  on  the  Fourteenth  An 
niversary  of  California's  Admission 
into  the  Union,  33. 

Question  of  Privilege,  A,  178. 

Ramon,  90. 

Relieving  Guard,  13. 

"  Return  of  Belisarius,  The,"  163. 

Reveille,  The,  10. 

Ritualist,  The,  300. 

St.  Thomas,  43. 

San  Francisco,  200. 

Banitary  Message,  A,  21. 

Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army,  A, 

"  Seventy-nine,"  172. 
Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  The,  132. 
Songs  without  Sense,  308. 
SPANISH  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS,  67. 


Spelling  Bee  at  Angols,  The,  183. 
Stage  Driver's  Story,  The,  175. 
Station-Master  of  Lone  Prairie,  The,  261. 

Tale  of  a  Pony,  The,  234. 
Telemachus  versus  Mentor,  248. 
Thompson  of  Angels,  152. 
Thought-Reader  of  Angels,  The.  180. 
To  a  Sea-Bird,  207. 
To  the  Pliocene  Skull,  280. 
Truthful  James  to  the  Editor,  146. 
"  Twenty  Years,"  211. 
Two  Ships,  The,  243. 

What  Miss  Edith  saw  from  her  Window- 

320. 

What  the  Bullet  sang,  256. 
What  the  Chimney  sang,  208. 
What  the  Engines  said,  304. 
What  the  Wolf  really  said  to  Little  Red 

Riding-Hood,  252. 
Willows,  The,  295. 
Wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin,  The, 

70*  i 


BRET    HARTE'S   WORKS 


O  American  novelist  of  the  past 
third  of  a  century  has  made  a  more 
valuable  and  lasting  contribution  to 
our  literature  than  that  which  we 
owe  to  Bret  Harte.  —  The  Dial. 


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Far- Western   Terms,   and    Index  to  * 
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APPRECIATIONS  OF  BRET   HARTE 

JHAT  American  of  the  last  generation 
has  equaled  or  come  anywhere  near 
equaling  Bret  Harte  in  vigor,  original 
ity,  unforced  humor,  and  pathos  ?  The 
man  was  an  artist." 

New  York  Sun. 

"  So  long  as  short  stories  are  prized,  a  goodly  number 
of  his  will  be  honorably  remembered  wherever  Eng* 
lish  is  read." 

New  York  Tribune. 

"  Bret  Harte  created  for  us  a  world  of  honest,  whole 
some  laughter." 

Boston  Advertiser. 

"  In  his  own  field  Bret  Harte  was  not  only  original 
but  inimitable.  His  place  in  American  literary  his 
tory  is  as  secure  as  it  is  conspicuous." 

Chicago  Evening  Post. 

«  Mr.  Harte's  talent  for  the  short  story  has  never 
been  equaled." 

Philadelphia  Press. 

"  No  writer  of  the  present  day  has  struck  so  powerful 
and  original  a  note  as  he  has  sounded.  In  his  best 
tales  he  forgets  all  other  literature,  and  sees  and  is 
possessed  solely  by  the  life  he  portrays." 

The  Spectator,  London. 

*  Bret  Harte  will  live  in  the  English  language  as  the 
pioneer  of  the  short  story." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


